


Interlude

by emmagrant01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bad Relationship, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Don't try this at home kids, Dubious Consent, M/M, Nipple Play, Partner sharing, Power Play, Recreational Drug Use, anal sex that goes badly, bad BDSM practices, misuse of safewords, not happy and fluffy, some kinkshaming by a character, two fucked up people who fuck up even more together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night when Sherlock was 23 years old, he met Victor Michael Trevor. This is what happened next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Cure For Boredom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/335385) by [emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01). 



> I posted this a few weeks ago as a chapter in [Alternate and Missing Scenes for A Cure for Boredom](http://archiveofourown.org/works/375433), and several readers suggested it would work well as a stand-alone piece. So here it is! Please heed the warnings and tags. This is not a happy, fluffy story overall, so if that's not your thing, you might want to skip this one.
> 
> Stunning art by Doublenegativemeansyes [HERE](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/64183956967/i-always-love-sherlock-in-emmagrant01s-fics).

_ March, 2000 _

Sherlock leaned his elbows against the railing of the terrace and took a long drag from his cigarette. He exhaled and the smoke drifted up to meet the hazy orange-purple sky, dissipating against a backdrop of soot-blackened rooftops and spindly aerials. No stars were visible here in the city, but he didn't care. Stars reminded him too much of school, and school, well – he'd ultimately deleted most of that anyway. 

"Jesus, that was dull." 

Sherlock didn't turn around. He raised the cigarette to his lips again.

"I thought my father was bad, but your brother is worse." The young man leaned against the railing next to Sherlock. "Can I bum a fag?"

Sherlock glanced sideways at him. He was three centimeters shorter than Sherlock, with broader shoulders, and his sandy hair appeared even more inclined to curl. He stared out at the sky for several seconds before turning to look at Sherlock with startlingly clear eyes. Sherlock looked away again, but reached into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out and offered it, and the man took it with a sly sort of smile, like he'd won a sort of victory in getting Sherlock to acknowledge his presence. Sherlock offered his lighter, and the man leaned in and cupped his hand around the flame, then stepped back again and exhaled smoothly, blowing out a stream of smoke along with a satisfied sigh.

"Thanks. It's Michael, by the way." At Sherlock's narrowed eyes, he smiled. "I prefer my middle name to the one my father calls me – it makes me sound like a tosser."

Sherlock dropped the lighter back into his pocket and leaned over the railing again. "Sherlock."

"Yes, I know." Michael took a long drag from the cigarette. "Nice to meet you properly, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to look at him for a moment before smirking and looking away again. "Did you quit or did you fail?"

"Sorry?"

"University."

Michael shifted uncomfortably beside him. "None of your business, is it?"

"Failed, then. History?"

"English literature, actually. And I didn't fail. My marks were lower than I'd hoped, certainly."

Sherlock snorted. "Spending more time in clubs than studying tends to produce that result."

"Have you been talking to my father, then?"

"Didn't have to." Sherlock took one last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out on the railing. "It's obvious."

"Obvious, really?" Michael's laugh was rich, deeper than his speaking voice. "Well, let me have a go, then. Your brother is dragging you along to business meetings you've obviously no interest in, which implies that he thinks he's doing you a favor. You obviously resent it and have no intention of doing anything he wants you to do, but you go just to shut him up. So, Sherlock, what about you? Did you quit or did you fail?"

Sherlock was stunned into silence for a moment. They had indeed been formally introduced at dinner, but he'd deleted the name immediately: yet another young loser paraded before Mycroft in the vain hope that being blessed by the rising star of the British banking industry would prove fortuitous. Sherlock had seen half a dozen young men like him, and none of them had done or said anything to pique his brother's interest – nor Sherlock's, not that it mattered. But perhaps he'd been hasty in his previous appraisal of this one: _Michael_. 

He kept his gaze focused on the horizon. "Neither. I don't quit, and I've never failed at anything in my entire life."

"So why are you here?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "I've nothing better to do."

"Oh, come off it. You pushed your food around on the plate for an hour and had only a single sip of wine. You did your best to look bored while simultaneously listening to every word, and still you heard nothing you deemed important enough to merit attention." Michael paused to smoke, and then exhaled a steady stream above their heads. "You weren't here tonight because you had nothing better to do. You were here because you had far worse things to do and your brother is a control freak who thinks he can save you."

Sherlock laughed before he could stop himself. "No one can save me."

"Then we've that much in common." Michael leaned forward and looked down at the street below. "Obviously you're clever enough to do whatever you want. So why don't you?" 

Sherlock pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit another. He took a long drag and exhaled slowly. "I'd rather spend too much time in clubs."

Michael stared back at him for a moment before shaking his head and smiling. "I think we're going to get on just fine, Sherlock."

Michael leaned into him slightly, just for a moment, and a strange, almost-familiar feeling rose in Sherlock's gut. It was unidentifiable, though, and unsettling. He looked out across the railing again and focused on the streetlights below. 

He'd never really got on with anyone before. He hardly expected to start doing so now.

*****

"How can you not have read Joyce?" Michael set his coffee cup on the table and fished another cigarette out of the pack they were sharing. "You went to public school."

"It was assigned, yes, but it was hardly necessary to read it to do the exam." Sherlock held out the lighter and Michael leaned in to light his cigarette. "The analyses they want you to learn in school are banal and predictable. I could tell from the cover of the book what the main themes were going to be. It's always either a Christ allegory or another version of Ulysses, anyway."

"Oh, I see. You once read Campbell and now you're cynical about the entirety of western literature." Michael rolled his eyes.

"I'm not cynical; I simply don't care. Science is what interests me, logic. Constructing experiments to test hypotheses, forming deductions from the gathered evidence – those are far more intellectually compelling than arguing about the meaning of the color of the drapery in the heroine's boudoir." He gestured wildly with his own cigarette. "Can't it just be red, and have it not mean anything?"

"Do you really think science is so different?" Michael leaned forward to flick ash into the tray between them on the table, his expression insufferably smug. "It's not all cold deductions and logic, you know. It's done by human beings, whose perceptions are colored by the societies in which they live and the political systems that fund their research."

"Oh, I see," Sherlock replied, unable to keep a sneer from his tone. "You once read Kuhn and now you're cynical about science." 

"My point is that the purpose of literary analysis isn't to find _the_ answer. There is no single interpretation of any work. Art exists independent of the artist."

"So you got to post-structuralism before you dropped that course. Good on you." Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette. "The scientist, I assure you, is not dead."

Michael sat back in his chair and took a long drag on his cigarette. He regarded Sherlock silently for a moment, and Sherlock once again felt the very odd sensation that Michael was looking through him, seeing something in his eyes that Sherlock himself wasn't aware of. It was unnerving, being on the receiving end of this sort of attention. He'd leveled it at others often enough that he knew Michael was now looking for a weak point, something to turn the conversation to his advantage. 

"Well?" Sherlock asked at last, growing impatient.

"What's your deal, Sherlock?"

Sherlock could only blink at him for a moment. "Deal? What are you talking about?"

"Boys, girls, both… neither?" Michael's eyebrows rose very slightly in challenge. "Whom do you prefer to fuck?"

Well, he'd found a weak point – at least in the sense that it was a topic Sherlock had little to no experience with or interest in. He swallowed his annoyance and looked away. 

He hadn't been oblivious to Michael's subtle flirting over the last few weeks, but he hadn't returned it. And until now, Michael hadn't pushed the issue. There had been a strange sort of competitive camaraderie between them and Sherlock had enjoyed it far more than he would have expected. It was rare that he encountered a person whose company he enjoyed, anticipated, even. Most people were blathering idiots whose under-developed intellects were literally wasting space in their skulls, who found Sherlock little more than a freakish curiosity to poke and prod for entertainment. 

_Tell me what I did last night, Holmes, go on._

_He's a proper freak. He can tell when you last had a shag with one look. Can't you, Holmes?_

_I'd fuck him ten ways to Sunday if I could tape his mouth shut first._

Michael was different, though: Sherlock found him simultaneously intriguing and annoying, a combination he hadn't experienced often. He'd enjoyed these meetings over coffee, cigarettes, and the occasional joint, these long conversations liberally peppered with verbal sparring and witty rejoinder. But now, here it was – the moment when Michael would make his intentions clear and Sherlock would express disinterest, and that would be it. Without the possibility of sex on the table, Michael wouldn't stay. No one ever did.

The surge of disappointment he felt at the idea that this might be the end of their – friendship? companionship? acquaintance? – was surprising. He stared back at Michael for a moment, eyes darting over the shape of his face, the color rising in his cheeks, the hint of sandy chest hair visible in the V of his polo shirt, before looking back up at his eyes again. Michael held his gaze steadily and then wet his lower lip with his tongue. It was a quick movement, only lasting a fraction of a second, but the twinge Sherlock felt in his groin was unexpected. 

"Well?"

"Well what?" Sherlock shifted in his seat, fumbled for the pack of cigarettes. Empty. Of course Michael would take the last fag before springing his trap. Bastard.

"You heard the question." Michael's eyes were full of something Sherlock couldn't identify, couldn't read at all, and it was discomfiting. It was maddening.

Sherlock reached across the table and plucked the lit cigarette from Michael's fingers, brought it to his own lips and took a long, satisfying drag. He had no idea how to answer that question. He wasn't sure what the answer was, and he didn't particularly care. Did he? 

He held out the cigarette, and was horrified to see his hand shaking, just a bit. "What do you think?"

Michael's smile turned lazy and his fingers brushed Sherlock's as he took the cigarette back. Sherlock felt a jolt of sensation at the touch. Michael leaned forward, his eyes darker now, dilated (nicotine—caffeine—sexual arousal), and Sherlock found he couldn't look away.

"I think you've only ever shagged girls, but you're more interested in boys. You just haven't had the opportunity yet." He paused and took a drag, and then leveled a narrow gaze at Sherlock. "Or the bollocks."

Sherlock laughed, inexplicably, and shook his head. "You've known me for more than two weeks now. Surely it's obvious that I'm hardly concerned with convention, or with what others think I ought to do."

"Not what I meant." Michael held out the cigarette again, but when Sherlock reached for it, Michael caught his fingers. "You're afraid of yourself, of finding out if that's what you really want."

"I'm not afraid of—"

"You are, though." Michael leaned closer and twined their fingers together. With his other hand he raised the cigarette to Sherlock's lips and let him take a drag before taking one more himself. He stubbed it out in the ashtray and looked up at Sherlock. "I like boys. And I like you."

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at their entwined fingers. Michael was right that Sherlock had – _once_ – been curious about sex with men. His single experience with a woman had been underwhelming, and he had wondered if perhaps he'd enjoy it more with a man. But there were easier ways to feel, to have, to want, to explore the sensation-addicted recesses of his own mind – ways that didn't involve other people and the inevitable irritation and abandonment that came with them. Serotonin-norepinephrine-dopamine-uptake inhibition, deacetylation, resultant euphoria. Repeat as necessary.

But this was something different, wasn't it? He wasn't exactly certain what Michael was offering, and that was unsettling. Others had flirted with him, often clumsily, occasionally in ways that were clever enough that he entertained the idea for a few seconds. In the end, none of them had actually tempted him in the slightest. But Michael, Michael was more than merely tolerable; he was, for lack of a more precise phrase, _fun_ to be with. He was attractive in all the conventional ways, even reasonably intelligent. And he'd spent eleven evenings out of the last nineteen with Sherlock, and hadn't yet left in annoyance and disgust.

So, right. In summary: Michael was different, and Sherlock was intrigued enough to consider sex with him. Sex wasn't something he found particularly interesting, but it was hardly an unpleasant ordeal, either. If Michael found it moderately enjoyable, he would have yet another reason to continue their friendship, and that alone was enough incentive to give it a sincere effort. Sherlock felt a small spark of excitement at the thought that it might not be over after all.

Michael shifted and looked down at the table, and Sherlock realized he'd been staring blankly at the man for five full seconds. Michael thought Sherlock was going to say no. He thought Sherlock wasn't interested, and he wouldn't likely offer again. If they were going to do this, Sherlock had to say so now.

Sherlock pulled his hand from Michael's grip and leaned back in his chair, tried to affect as casual a posture as possible with his stomach suddenly twisting up into his chest. "All right."

"All right?" Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat. Had he read it all wrong? "You are propositioning me, are you not?"

Michael's lips twisted slightly. "Well, yes. I was."

"And I am accepting your offer. I assume you meant now, but if you'd prefer another coffee first, I can wait."

Michael looked startled for a brief moment before he smiled again – radiantly, Sherlock couldn't help but notice. "No, now is good. Now is… fantastic, actually."

"Then it's settled." 

Michael exhaled and nodded. "Right." He bit his lip and seemed to be trying not to grin too broadly.

Sherlock sat awkwardly for a moment more before deciding action was best. He stood and pulled on his coat. "Should we go to yours or mine?"

Michael scrambled to his feet, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. "I still live with my parents, actually, and they don't know that I'm…" He made a vague gesture with one hand.

"Out past your bedtime?" 

"Fuck you, you know what I mean."

Sherlock wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck and smirked. "Mine it is. I'll hail a taxi."

*****

"Bloody hell." Michael stood in the middle of the entryway and gaped. "You never said that the reason you didn't have a job was because you were independently wealthy."

"It was my parents' house, now my brother's." Sherlock began unfastening his coat as he headed for the stairs. "If you'd rather stand here and gawk at the antiques for a while, my room is on the second floor, third door on the left."

Michael's footsteps began to follow him up the stairs. "So you live with – is that a real Picasso?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, but not one of the good ones."

"Un-fucking-believable."

Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs and turned to see Michael examining yet another painting. He fidgeted for a moment, uncertain how to proceed. This had been Michael's idea, after all. Sherlock couldn't fault him for finding the surroundings more fascinating than the possibility of sex, but he'd had the impression Michael was far more interested in the latter. He cleared his throat. "If you'd rather not, it's fine."

Michael turned to look at him, and frowned for a moment before taking the last handful of steps two at a time. Sherlock stepped backward, intending to turn and continue down the corridor, but Michael grabbed his wrist and tugged him back around. A moment later Michael's mouth covered his, tongue pressing roughly between Sherlock's lips. 

Kissing was such an odd act, and incredibly intimate; the fact that such an exchange of bodily fluids was generally considered a precursor to any sort of sexual contact was something Sherlock had never completely understood. The instinct to recoil from it faded quickly, though: as kisses went, he supposed this was a fair one. Not that he had much to compare it to. 

He slid his tongue against Michael's, which produced a promising sort of moan, followed by an even deeper exploration of Sherlock's mouth. Perhaps a more thorough investigation of kissing was in order, with a comparison of different techniques, depths of penetration, pressure of lips, speed of—

There was a sound on the floor above, and Sherlock felt himself tense involuntarily: Mycroft was home. Best to change their location. He walked backwards, pulling Michael along with him, and then found himself pressed against his own bedroom door. He fumbled behind his back for a moment until he found the knob and turned it, and they both nearly tumbled inside.

Sherlock stepped away long enough to pull off his coat and fold it across the desk chair. He closed the bedroom door – engaged the lock, just to be sure – and turned to look at Michael, uncertain what should happen next. More kissing, perhaps? Michael's gaze was focused on the bed now; apparently he was ready to move things along. Very well. 

Sherlock toed off his shoes and had started on the buttons of his shirt before Michael closed the distance between them and stilled his hands.

"Oh, no, no." Michael's eyes glinted almost maniacally in the dim light. "Have you any idea how long I've wanted to rip your clothes off you?"

Sherlock frowned. "That's completely unnecessary. And this is my favorite shirt."

"It's an expression, you idiot." Michael made quick work of the buttons and tugged the shirt off, dumping it into an undignified pile on the floor. 

Sherlock's gaze followed it down, his fingers itching to pick it up and hang it properly – the wrinkles would be horrible – but before he could do anything else, Michael pressed one hand against the front of Sherlock's trousers, and that – _oh, that_ – he'd forgotten about that part, the way it felt when a hand that wasn't his own touched him so intimately. He'd deleted it, perhaps. No matter: it was coming back to him now. 

Michael's fingers made quick work of the button and zip, and just as it occurred to Sherlock that he ought to reciprocate, Michael pushed him backwards onto the bed. Sherlock's trousers were around his ankles now and Michael was staring down at his pants as if he were imagining pulling them off with his teeth. Sherlock sat up enough to kick his trousers off entirely – wrinkles be damned, at this point – and found himself at eye level with Michael's groin. His trousers were stretched over an impressive erection – the first Sherlock had seen other than his own. He reached out to trace the outline of it with his fingertips. 

"Oh, fuck." Michael's voice was rough, and Sherlock looked up. Michael's eyes were dark (pupils dilated from arousal) and his face was flushed (rising heart rate, vasocongestion of the skin, increased rate of respiration). He knew the basic physiology of it all, but still, it was fascinating and he wanted to see more, more of this response to his own touch. He slid his hand up the length of Michael's erection, varying the pressure slightly, automatically cataloguing Michael's reactions. There were so many variables that it was nearly overwhelming; he'd need a spreadsheet to keep track of it all. He felt a jolt of excitement: why hadn't he thought to experiment with sex before?

He watched Michael's face as he unfastened the button, drew down the zip, and pushed Michael's trousers down over his hips. Michael looked back at him with an expectant expression for a long moment, and ah, of course – he anticipated oral sex. Complications began to fire off in Sherlock's brain so quickly that it paralyzed him for a moment. 

"You haven't done this, have you?" Michael's expression was kinder than Sherlock would have anticipated. 

His gaze fell to the wet spot on Michael's pants. "I haven't done any of it with a man." He'd only done it with a woman the one time, but Michael didn't need to know that.

"It's fine, it's… kind of hot, actually." Michael's fingers threaded into Sherlock's hair, working through too-long curls before tightening at the back and tilting Sherlock's head up. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. "God, I've been wanting to do that as well. What?"

"I don't understand why you find my inexperience erotic."

"Really? Well." He released Sherlock's hair and pressed one thumb against his lower lip. "It's the idea that my cock will be the first one ever in your mouth, I suppose."

"Sex as a metaphor for conquering virgin territory? That's hardly original."

Michael stared back at him. "You're… Are you a virgin?"

Sherlock laughed before he could help himself. "It's an expression. _Idiot_."

" _Touché_." Michael tugged his briefs down over his hips and his erection bounced forward. 

"Though it's true that I haven't done this." Sherlock tilted his head and gave it an appraising look: he'd only seen his own penis erect before – in person, at least – and the one before him now was surprisingly different from his own. It was shorter, thicker, with a tighter foreskin, and the pubic hair was more sparse than Sherlock's own.

"Waiting for an engraved invitation?"

Sherlock very nearly rolled his eyes. But if this went well, he supposed he'd have further opportunities for up-close observation. In for a penny – he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the tip of the glans, and then opened his mouth enough to take it in. 

"Oh, fuck." Michael's hand was back in his hair now, and he pressed his hips forward while holding Sherlock's head in place, far enough to make him gag. 

Sherlock found he didn't like that at all. He tugged Michael's hand out of his hair and pulled away. "Not like that. On the bed." 

Michael grinned and stretched out on his back. "If you insist." 

"And keep your hands well away."

"I'll try, but no promises. Maybe you should tie them to the headboard, just to be sure." The tone had been teasing, but the words went straight to Sherlock's groin in a jolt of heat and tightening prickling skin. He'd barely been hard before, but now, now an image of Michael filled his mind, bound at the wrists, naked, and helpless, and – _fuck_. He stared back at Michael for a full second, and Michael's eyes widened. "Oh, you… You'd like that, would you?"

"I…" Sherlock began, and then hesitated. It wasn't just the idea of tying Michael up, was it? It was far more than that, but he doubted that the fantasies his mind was currently spinning would be acceptable. He cleared his thoughts, pushed them all to the back of his mind for the time being, and injected as much heat into his smile as he could manage. "Yes. I think I would."

Michael bit his lip. "Maybe next time, yeah? Right now I just want your mouth on me." He ground up against Sherlock's thigh and closed his eyes. Sherlock let the smile drop from his face as he stared down at him, still trying to process what had just happened. Michael's eyes opened again, but the moment he caught sight of Sherlock's face, his expression changed completely, from one of smug satisfaction to something unreadable. Sherlock felt a flash of panic – had he done something wrong already? After a moment Michael's smile returned, and he looked up at Sherlock from underneath long sandy eyelashes and whispered, "Please?"

"Yes." Sherlock all but growled the word out, much to his own surprise. He pressed Michael into the mattress and kissed him, and Michael whimpered beneath him and _God_ , that – that was erotic, shockingly so. "Keep your hands on the rails," Sherlock said, and the speed with which Michael complied sent a fresh surge of desire through him. God, he needed – he didn't know quite what. "Say it again."

"I… what?"

"What you want. Ask me nicely." Sherlock slid a hand up over Michael's chest, marveling at the heat rolling off of his skin.

"Oh, God." Michael's eyes fell closed. "I want… I want you to suck me. Please."

"Yes, all in good time. But only if you stay very still for me." He plucked at one brown nipple with his fingertips, watching with fascination as it hardened to a peak. "Can you do that?"

"Yes." 

Michael's reply was almost a whimper, and then Sherlock lost himself in the small sounds he made as Sherlock worked his way slowly down the tanned length of his torso, pausing to kiss and touch and lick, torturously slowly. He could read Michael's responses with astonishing ease, could see the difference between a touch that was ticklish and one that was neutral and one that was clearly erogenous. Every shiver of Michael's limbs, every gasped breath – all of it was gloriously fascinating. So much data, so much to consume, and Sherlock's mind was whirling with possibilities. 

By the time Sherlock finally took his cock in his mouth again, it was clear that Michael was hanging on by a thread. He slid his lips down slowly, let the taste of pre-ejaculate fluid roll across his tongue, a hint of sweet, then salty, then bitter. He pulled back again, letting the flat of his tongue cover his bottom teeth, and Michael hissed at the sensation. More of that, then. He repeated the movement, wriggling his tongue, adjusting the pressure and watching, listening, feeling the way Michael responded to each minute change in his technique.

The feel of Michael's cock in his mouth was far more pleasant than he might have anticipated, soft skin sliding against impossibly hard flesh. He wrapped his fingers around the shaft and pulled the foreskin all the way back before sucking on the glans, lightly at first, then harder, then using his tongue to increase the pressure as Michael's moans became louder, his hips tipping up involuntarily as he came.

The spurt of semen against his soft palate caught Sherlock by surprise. He'd known, of course, that it was coming, but he'd been so caught up in watching Michael that he hadn't prepared himself for it. He managed to suppress the urge to gag for the most part, and held his mouthful for two full seconds before deciding that swallowing would be the easiest route. 

"Oh, my God," Michael said, panting. Sherlock glanced up at his flushed face, and saw that his hands still clenched the rails at the head of the bed, just as Sherlock had requested.

 _Fuck_. Sherlock sat up on his knees and wiped one hand across his mouth even as the other was stroking his own cock.

"Wait, let me," Michael said, and Sherlock didn't hesitate: he crawled forward and planted his knees on either side of Michael's chest, and pressed forward into Michael's open mouth. 

It was gorgeous, better than he remembered, and Michael was enthusiastic and thorough. One of Michael's hands wrapped around the base of the shaft and the other found Sherlock's hip and pushed, encouraging him to move. Sherlock shifted his hips, very slightly at first, but after a minute he was outright fucking Michael's mouth, and Michael sucked and stroked at the same time, and _God_ he was close, right on the edge. 

Michael's fingernails dug into his hip and he flattened his tongue against the head of Sherlock's cock, creating an even tighter suction, but it was the sounds he made that pushed Sherlock over the edge – small, desperate, needy whimpers around the ragged breaths he drew between strokes, and oh, _oh_ , he was just taking it and something about that made the heat swell low in Sherlock's belly and rise again and there, _there_ , like that, just like that.

Michael began coughing the moment he pulled out, and Sherlock tumbled to the side, nearly off the bed. Panic surged in him – he'd lost control, had lost himself to the moment, and that wasn't like him, not like this, not when he was sober and had been for weeks, because Mycroft had said—

"No, it's fine, I'm fine. I just need to learn to swallow before I catch my breath." Michael coughed again and then grinned up at him. "Jesus, Sherlock, I had no idea."

Sherlock exhaled, willed himself to calm down again. He still felt a bit lightheaded from the orgasm. "What do you mean?"

"That you like to be in charge, and to have it a bit rough. You do, don't you?" Michael smiled at Sherlock's bewildered expression. "No, it's cool. Something I've always wanted to try, actually."

Sherlock's brain was running at half-speed, somehow. None of this made sense. He knew that what had just happened wasn't completely normal – outside of cheap porn, anyway – and he was fairly certain that he shouldn't have enjoyed it as much as he had. He swallowed, forced himself to focus. "You have?"

Michael reached up to slide one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down into a kiss. "I'm willing to experiment a bit if you are."

Sherlock closed his eyes and kissed Michael roughly, and then pulled away enough to look at him. "Are you certain about that?" His mind was spinning already, dozens of possible scenarios presenting themselves at once. He categorized them, filed them away, tried not to let them spiral too far out of control.

"Yes," Michael said, and kissed him again. 

"All right, then, that's… yes." Sherlock sank down beside him and stared up at the ceiling, letting the simultaneous sensations of excitement and trepidation wash over him. He wasn't exactly certain what he wanted, or whether Michael's notion of experimentation quite matched his own. But it was clear that Michael was willing to be experimented upon, at least for now, and that was something Sherlock was going to enjoy very much. 

*****


	2. Two

He'd done a bit of research, of course. An internet search had been helpful to an extent, but asking questions in certain sorts of shops had yielded the most useful results. He'd flipped through the book the sales girl recommended, but it hadn't held any information that seemed terribly critical. It mostly concerned tying people up in uncomfortable-looking positions using intricate webs of rope with complex knots. The accompanying photographs were interesting, but this sort of bondage wasn't quite what he was looking for.

No, he had something different in mind altogether.

"All right, then," Michael said, and he pulled his shirt over his head. 

Sherlock held the coil of rope in one hand and ran his fingertips along a length of it. It was soft and strong, and a shade of indigo he'd found inexplicably appealing under the bright fluorescent lights of the shop. He'd practiced a bit that afternoon, experimenting with different types of knots and tension.

"Keep your trousers on for now," Sherlock said, his gaze still focused on the rope in his hands. 

Michael chuckled. "Fine. As long as you take them off eventually."

Sherlock's lips turned up at the corners. "We'll see. On the bed, then, up against the rails."

Michael grinned and clambered up into place. "Like this?" 

"No, lower. I want you on your back." Sherlock knelt beside him as he shifted into position on the bed and uncoiled the rope. He began threading it between the rails. "Give me your hand."

The sales girl had warned against making the rope too tight, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes – of course he knew better than to cut off circulation – but it had been a bit more difficult to get that detail correct in practice than he'd expected. He slipped two fingers between the rope and Michael's wrist, just to be sure.

"Give it a good tug."

Michael did, and then grinned. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock gave him a dark look and crossed to tie the other one. "No, you're not."

"You really get off on this, don't you?"

"That is the point of this exercise, yes." Sherlock tugged on the knots and sat back to see the full effect. "Comfortable enough?"

"Enough for what?" Michael retorted. There was a hint of anxiety in his voice, just enough that it gave Sherlock pause. The shop girl had made another recommendation, and it came to the front of his mind now. It hadn't seemed quite so important in theory, oddly enough.

"We need a safeword."

"A what?"

"A word you can say that will signal you want to stop whatever we're doing."

"Can't I just say stop?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, uncertain how to phrase what he meant in a way that wouldn't put Michael off entirely. "It should be something you wouldn't ordinarily say in bed, so it would get my attention."

Michael frowned. "I don't ordinarily say _stop_ in bed. And what do you mean, get your attention?"

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, if we're… No, all right, I suppose 'stop' will be fine."

"No, maybe you're right. How about…" He paused and looked thoughtful. "Chicken."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Fine, be that way. Hamster?"

"Absolutely not." 

"It's my word, isn't it? Isn't the point that I get to decide?"

Sherlock groaned. "Do you really intend to shout out 'hamster' when you want me to untie you?"

Michael smirked. "I'm sensing it would get your attention."

"Fine, hamster."

"God, no; I was taking the piss. I prefer 'orange,' actually."

"Orange will do." Sherlock climbed off the bed and unbuttoned his shirt. Michael's eyes were fixed on him, and he slowed down a bit, taking his time with it. By the time he'd carefully folded it and placed it on his desk, Michael was squirming. 

"I take it you're planning to torture me?"

Sherlock smirked and unfastened his trousers. "I suppose it depends on your definition of torture. Why, would you like me to?"

"The other night – that was as hard as I've ever come in my life." Michael paused and stretched luxuriously, and something tightened in Sherlock's belly. "I can tell you're used to fucking girls. Most blokes just want to get off quick, not take their time with all that foreplay."

"Are you saying you'd prefer it to be quick?" Sherlock hung his trousers over the chair and crossed back to the bed.

"No, no, I just – are you sure that was the first time you've sucked a cock?"

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I'm quite certain. Any other questions?"

"No." Michael smiled up at him and wriggled his hips. "But if you're taking requests—" 

"Enough talking. I want you to be quiet now." 

Sherlock sat next to him on the bed and smoothed a hand over his chest. Michael nodded and his head fell back against the mattress, though he didn't seem relaxed at all. Sherlock leaned over him and kissed him, softly at first, pulling away when Michael tried to deepen it. 

"You're going to have to learn to be more patient." He sat back and smirked, and there was a flash of something dark in Michael's eyes. It was gone again just as quickly, but it lit a fire in Sherlock's groin. "Yes, go on. You can be angry at me, if you like. I'd be surprised if you felt otherwise by the time we're done." He leaned down and brushed his lips against Michael's, then traced the swell of his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "But you're going to enjoy this, I think." He slid one hand down Michael's belly and over the swell at the front of his trousers, and Michael whimpered into his mouth. "On second thought, I suppose complete silence is a bit extreme, isn't it? Perhaps I should see how many different ways I can induce you to make sounds like that."

Michael chuckled in response, and Sherlock cut the sound off with a rather thorough kiss.

It was fascinating, he thought half an hour later as Michael squirmed beneath him with wide dark eyes and a sizeable tent in his still-fastened trousers, how far he could push this. He'd covered much of Michael's chest and neck with licks and teasing bites, had drawn swirling pink lines in his skin with his fingernails, and had found every ticklish spot in his upper body.

Michael's nipples were especially sensitive and Sherlock had touched them only sparingly – until now, anyway. He sprawled out on his side and circled his tongue slowly around one dark areola, and Michael groaned.

"I suspect," Sherlock began, and then paused to flick his tongue against the tight little bud that rose under his mouth, "that you might be able to climax from this alone."

Michael made a sound of disbelief, and Sherlock smiled. A challenge, then. Good.

He alternated between quick flicks of his tongue and hard sucks, drawing the sensitive tissue much further into his mouth than he'd have thought possible. Soft, hard, gentle, rough, delicate, engulfing – by the time he moved to the other side, Michael was quivering beneath him. He applied the same treatment to the other nipple and used his fingers on the one he'd just left, rolling the tender skin between his fingers and tugging just to the point of pain – all while lapping delicately at the nipple under his mouth. 

Michael's face was a storm, reflecting the confusion his body seemed to be feeling as it hovered between pain and pleasure. He strained against the ropes binding his wrists, but he said nothing, made no overt protests. Sherlock took the nipple between his teeth and tugged gently, while flicking the other one with the tip of his finger. Michael shifted his hips, straining desperately for some sort of friction.

"Oh, you are beautiful like this," Sherlock whispered, and gave the nipple a hard suck. His own cock was aching now, just from the thought of how long Michael had lain there, still, tied, quiet, and perfectly pliant. Sherlock could do anything to him now, probably. Several rather disturbing ideas flooded his mind and he pushed them away. Not now – not yet.

He began flicking his tongue lightly against the nipple under his mouth, barely touching the skin at first, and then increasing the pressure, harder and harder. He mirrored the action on the other side with his fingertips, and Michael made a choked sound of surprise.

"Oh, God, I'm—Fuck!" His hips bucked against nothing and he strained against the ropes at his wrists, and the words morphed into strangled cries as he came.

Sherlock sat up on his knees to watch him, and finally couldn't bear it any longer. He pushed his pants below his hips and took his cock in hand. He was close, so fucking close, and after only a handful of strokes, he felt his own orgasm begin. Michael cried out again as Sherlock striped his chest with semen, once, twice, and _oh God_. He sat next to Michael, panting, his head buzzing from the endorphin rush. 

"That was… Jesus." Michael was staring up at the ceiling, his chest heaving. "I've never… you didn't even touch my cock. I don't know how you did that."

Sherlock looked down at him and quirked an eyebrow, then stood and stretched. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. "It makes one wonder what else is possible."

Michael laughed. "Oh, God, you're going to ruin me for anyone else, aren't you?"

Sherlock lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, then put the cigarette between Michael's lips. "If you like."

Michael took a long drag, his eyes briefly fluttering closed, and then grinned when Sherlock removed the cigarette again. "If that's the result, then I'm game for just about anything." 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and brought the cigarette to his lips. "I think we're going to get along just fine, Michael."

Michael sighed and closed his eyes, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice he wasn't struggling against the restraints at all. Sherlock blew a stream of smoke into the air above his head, and wondered how long Michael might be willing to be tied up. Perhaps tonight wasn't the night to leave him there until cramps set in, but another ten minutes would provide sufficient data. For now.

*****

"I told my father about us."

Sherlock looked up from the drinks he was mixing. "You didn't."

Michael grinned. "Well, I didn't tell him that you like to tie me up and make me come in innovative ways. I told him we were friends."

"Ah." Sherlock's cheeks tinted slightly at the word, and he ducked his head. Were they friends, then? He hadn't been certain how to refer to Michael in his head. _Friend_. Interesting. He'd never had a friend before. He held out a glass. "I take it he approves?"

Michael's expression was pure disdain. "Oh, of course. Said it was about time I began to hang about the right sort." He took a sip of his drink and winced slightly. "I think he's far more interested in getting into your brother's inner circle than he is in my social life."

"Reverse nepotism. How original." Sherlock held his own drink up and examined it. "Mycroft suspects he's got a hand in some illegal dealings with the Saudis."

"He probably does. Fuck if I know. The only words I get from him are about how much of a disappointment I am." He took another, larger drink.

"Because you're gay?"

"Oh, he doesn't know about that. He just thinks I'm a lazy stupid fuck."

Sherlock lifted his glass to his lips. "You're not stupid. And you're actually a fantastic fuck."

Michael chuckled. "I suppose I am rather lazy." He looked up at Sherlock again, and his eyebrows rose. "Especially since you do all the work."

Sherlock set his drink down and reached behind the bar for a few items he'd stashed there earlier in the afternoon. He shoved them in a pocket and turned back to Michael. "I've got something different planned for tonight."

"Oh?" There was an odd mix of heat and disquiet in Michael's eyes. 

Sherlock stepped closer to him and put one hand on his cheek. Michael leaned in to kiss him, but Sherlock turned his head away at the last moment and nipped at Michael's earlobe. "Strip."

Michael looked incredulous. "What, here?"

"Yes." Sherlock took the glass from his hand and set it on the bar behind them. 

"But your brother—"

"Is away on business. He's not due home for several days."

"Staff?"

"Have the evening off."

Michael grinned. "We have the entire house to ourselves and you want to do it here?"

"The bar is where Mycroft prefers to entertain his most powerful and influential clients. I call it his Throne Room." 

Michael had expressed admiration for the richly decorated room when they'd first entered, with its Italian leather armchairs, plush Persian rugs, and sleek, well-stocked mahogany bar. Now he seemed to regard it anew. "Your mind is the most gorgeous, wicked thing."

Sherlock smirked and took a step backward. "I know. Now strip."

Michael tugged his shirt up over his head and tossed it aside, then started on his trousers. Sherlock picked up his drink again and watched, anticipation building in his gut. Michael didn't know what was coming, had no idea what Sherlock might have planned, but here he was, removing his clothes without hesitation. He was so perfectly trusting, so willing to let Sherlock play with him. 

Five nights ago Sherlock had sucked and licked his cock for exactly thirty minutes, pulling back every time Michael was too close to coming. After Sherlock finally let him climax, Michael had shivered for a solid five minutes, which had worried Sherlock so much he'd run down the corridor to the guest bedroom to fetch another blanket. Michael had just laughed when Sherlock wrapped it around him, and never said a word about the fact that Sherlock had lost his own erection in the process. 

Two nights ago he'd tied Michael to the bed face down before explaining that he wasn't going to touch him tonight, that if he wanted to come he should just rub off on the sheets beneath him. Michael was livid, but he'd watched with clear desire when Sherlock sat by his head and stroked himself slowly, whispering every dirty thing he could think of. Ten minutes in, Michael gave in and pumped his hips against the mattress, and Sherlock put on an outright show of masturbation until Michael finally came. 

Michael had glared angrily at him when Sherlock untied him, and Sherlock had laughed and kissed him, and finally Michael had given in and kissed him back, whispering, "It was so fucking hot to watch you like that."

Deep down, Michael liked it, liked being pushed and challenged. He liked it when Sherlock denied him sensation, and then gave him more than he could bear. He enjoyed being used as a test subject in Sherlock's experiments about sexual stimulation, and no matter how far Sherlock pushed him, he always came with Sherlock's name on his lips, trembling.

Tonight should be very interesting, if Michael complied as well as he usually did.

"What about you?" Michael stepped out of his pants and tossed them over to the pile of rapidly wrinkling clothing.

"In good time." Sherlock crossed to stand in front of him. "I want you quiet and still now." He let his gaze trail down Michael's body, down to where his cock was beginning to thicken between his thighs. "I'm not typically concerned with physical appearances, but you are undeniably beautiful."

The corners of Michael's mouth turned up slightly. Sherlock crossed behind him and let one hand trail down Michael's spine, stopping just above his buttocks. Yes, this was going to do nicely. He plunged one hand into his pocket and, without saying another word, crossed Michael's hands behind his back and tied them together with a length of rope. Michael kept perfectly still while Sherlock knotted the rope. He'd probably expected that, but Sherlock knew he wouldn't expect what was coming next. He pulled a long silk scarf from his pocket and folded it lengthwise several times. It had been his mother's and was a stunning shade of green. He could only imagine her reaction to the use he was about to make of it.

In a quick movement, he placed it over Michael's eyes and tied it at the back of his head. There was a sharp intake of breath, but Michael didn't respond otherwise. Sherlock stepped back and admired the sight before him. Michael was so beautifully pliant, so willing to let Sherlock play with him like this. 

"Sensory deprivation," Sherlock said, and cupped one hand against Michael's arse. "I'm given to understand it heightens arousal." He circled to Michael's front again. His respiration had definitely increased, and there was a light flush on his cheeks. "I'm not going to speak either, further depriving your brain of sensory data." He knelt in front of Michael and blew a tickling breath across his penis.

Michael made a whimpering sound and his cock swelled right then and there. 

Sherlock trailed the tip of his tongue down the underside and back up again, then flicked it across the slit for several torturous seconds before swirling it around the glans. Michael groaned appreciatively, and Sherlock licked a bit more before taking the glans in his mouth and sucking lightly for a full minute. He didn't use his tongue or apply much pressure; it was just enough to tease. Michael exhaled shakily and shifted his hips forward, straining into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and Michael made a sound of frustration. Sherlock smiled at that, and had to bite his lip to keep himself silent. He could do anything now, anything at all, and Michael wouldn't see it coming until it was right upon him. It would be the purest sort of response to stimulation, with no influence by preconceived notions. His own cock was rock hard now, and he had to shift and adjust it in his trousers. Or better yet…

He stood and pushed down on Michael's shoulders. Michael seemed confused for a moment, but then knelt down on the floor. Sherlock unzipped his trousers, and there was a hint of a smile on Michael's lips as he recognized the sound. Sherlock pushed his trousers and pants down over his hips and had to pause a moment to collect himself. The raw urgency he felt was nearly overwhelming, and he didn't want to come so quickly. He just wanted to take the edge off, just a bit.

He pushed the head of his cock against Michael's lips, and Michael opened his mouth, took it in almost greedily. It was too much, too soon, and Sherlock braced a hand on the top of his head and pulled out. He waited a moment before brushing the glans against Michael's lower lip again. Michael's tongue darted out and lapped at the underside, and _oh, yes_ , that was what he wanted. 

He went up on his toes a bit to get Michael to lick down the shaft, and then finally pushed the head between his lips once more. He held Michael's head still and pumped his hips, fu cking his mouth slowly just with the glans, not pushing in too far. It was lovely, just enough suction, and that tongue– 

He was getting too close already, so he pulled out and dropped to his knees, and kissed Michael hard. Michael's mouth was warm and tasted just slightly of pre-ejaculate, and Sherlock lingered there longer than he'd intended. 

He finally sat back and stood, pulled his trousers back up, and circled behind Michael. There were several other things he'd wanted to do tonight, but now new ideas sprang to his mind, ones he hadn't planned to try so soon. He fastened his trousers and leaned forward to plant a kiss next to Michael's ear. 

"Don't move. I'll be right back."

He left the room and headed upstairs to retrieve some supplies. When he returned, Michael was still kneeling in the center of the rug – Mycroft's favorite rug, Sherlock thought with glee – looking rather discomfited. His erection had flagged in the interim, but Sherlock doubted it would be a problem for long. He settled behind Michael and put a hand on his back, and pressed him forward. Michael resisted for a split second, but then leaned over until the crown of his head touched the rug. Sherlock tugged at his hips to encourage him to stick his arse in the air.

It was an even more fascinating sight than Sherlock had expected. Michael's hands were clenched into fists behind his back and his weight was balanced between his knees and his head. His arse was spread open and his cock and balls hung heavy between his thighs. He looked uncomfortable. It was gorgeous.

Sherlock pulled on a latex glove and uncapped the lube he'd brought downstairs, and applied a generous amount to Michael's arsehole. It dripped down over his balls and onto the rug, and Sherlock stifled a laugh. Mycroft would have him murdered in his sleep if he ever found out. He circled one gloved finger against Michael's anus and watched for his reaction. Michael's hands relaxed and he moaned softly, and Sherlock pressed the tip of his finger inside. 

He'd tried this on himself out of curiosity, and it had felt a bit odd. He supposed it was fairly pleasurable, though he couldn't get past the feeling that he was soiling himself. Michael seemed to be enjoying it, though, even pushing back against him. Sherlock pushed that finger all the way in to the knuckle and pulled it out again as slowly as he could manage, and Michael made another soft sound of pleasure. Sherlock added a second finger and watched with fascination as both pressed into Michael's body, eased by the slickness of the lubricant. He pushed them in and out a few more times, experimenting with the effects of speed and depth. He twisted his fingers as he pulled them out (another moan), and then pressed his thumb against the perineum while the fingers inside hooked downwards. 

Michael made a strangled sound – ah, yes, that was his prostate. Sherlock massaged it gently with his fingertips until Michael's thighs began to shake. Too much, then. Sherlock pulled his fingers out, and Michael heaved a sigh of relief.

Sherlock squirted more lube onto his anus, and then picked up another object he'd gone upstairs to retrieve. It wasn't a large anal plug, not much bigger in diameter than a finger, but since it was covered with small ridges, he anticipated it would feel quite different. He circled Michael's anus with the smooth tip of it, and Michael went completely still. 

Sherlock pushed it in just a bit, and Michael's hands clenched. He didn't know yet what it was, but he hadn't objected. Sherlock pressed the plug in a centimeter more and let Michael's body push it out again, then repeated the action. They hadn't discussed the safeword in over a week, but he assumed Michael remembered. If he wanted to stop, he knew what to do.

Sherlock pressed the plug in further, far enough this time that Michael would be able to feel the texture of it when Sherlock pulled it out again. Michael made a sound of surprise, but the insertion was easy, which Sherlock took to mean that he was relaxed. He pressed it in again, this time not stopping until the flanged end rested against Michael's anus.

He sat back and stripped off the glove, then pushed Michael back up to a kneeling position. Michael's shoulders sagged in obvious relief, and Sherlock couldn't help smiling. He settled in front of Michael and ducked his head down to give his cock one long, hard suck. The sound Michael made at that was almost a word, but he swallowed it down again. 

Michael was fully hard now, and leaking, and Sherlock reached into his pocket for the final item he'd purchased earlier that afternoon: a black latex ring. Michael whimpered when Sherlock placed it over the glans and rolled it down to the base, and for a moment Sherlock thought he might protest. He took the glans in his mouth again and sucked gently, massaging the frenulum with his tongue, and Michael seemed to calm down again.

Sherlock sat up and kissed him softly. "You've been perfect," he whispered against Michael's lips. "So fucking gorgeous." Michael caught his lips in a searing kiss, and Sherlock pulled away again. "I want you to be patient just a bit longer. I'll be back in a little while. Don't move."

Michael's jaw clenched, but he nodded, and Sherlock stood. He wanted to stay and watch, to hide in a corner and see what happened, but it would be best if he actually left the room. 

He went to the kitchen and rifled through the pantry for Mycroft's favorite biscuits. He made himself a cup of tea, flipped through the newspaper, and finally couldn't bear it any longer. He walked back to where he'd left Michael, stepping as quietly as he could manage on the wooden floors. 

The moment Michael became aware of his presence was clear. His body stiffened and his jaw clenched tightly, and his hands curled into fists. His cock still jutted angrily from his groin. Sherlock smirked and crossed towards him. 

"Miss me?"

"Where the fuck have you been?" Michael spat.

"Not far away, I promise." Sherlock stroked the top of Michael's head with his fingers, and Michael jerked away. "Oh, angry at me now?"

"That's a fucking understatement."

Sherlock frowned. Had he gone too far? "You have a safeword."

"It's a bit pointless when you're in the other room, isn't it?"

Sherlock winced. "I suppose it is. If you want to stop now—"

"I don't, I just…" Michael paused and exhaled heavily. "It was hot, you know. I was really enjoying it. I liked not knowing what you were going to do next."

"Until I left you alone for fifteen minutes."

"Then I started plotting ways to kill you in your sleep." 

Sherlock smiled. "I'm planning to make it worth your while."

"You'd better be." Michael's anger had subsided, but there was still an edge to his voice. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips were pressed into a thin line, and Sherlock was suddenly, inexplicably hard.

"Just one more thing," Sherlock said, stepping forward and unzipping his trousers.

Michael groaned in frustration. "You'd better come fast. My knees are killing me."

It was hot, and perfect, and rough, since Michael didn't bother being careful with his teeth, but it was the best blow job of Sherlock's entire life. He pushed farther into Michael's mouth than he'd dared before, and Michael sucked hard, and Sherlock came so intensely that his vision whited out for a moment.

Michael spat on the rug afterward. "Explain that to your brother."

Sherlock laughed. "I think we can do better than that. Lie on your back."

"Finally," Michael huffed, and then hesitated. "Are you going to untie me first?" 

"Ah, right." Sherlock pulled his trousers back up and moved behind him to unfasten the knots on his wrists. Michael immediately reached for the blindfold. "Oh, no you don't," Sherlock said, capturing his hands again. "That remains on. Get on your back."

Michael shifted and winced. "Easier said than done with this thing up my arse." He maneuvered onto his back after a bit of a struggle, and Sherlock pushed his knees up into his chest.

"Hands on your knees now. I want you to keep yourself in this position. And no talking."

Michael made a grumbling sound, but he complied. Sherlock sat back and smiled at the sight of Michael spread out before him.

"Now, where shall I begin? This looks as if it needs some attention." He traced one finger up the length of Michael's swollen cock and spread the fluid there around on the glans. "Or maybe I should start here instead." He tugged at the edge of the plug in Michael's arse, and then twisted it 360 degrees inside him. Michael shivered, and Sherlock paused to lower himself onto his belly. He leaned forward and wriggled his tongue against Michael's scrotum. "Oh, but I've neglected these, haven't I?"

Michael whimpered as Sherlock sucked one testicle into his mouth and sucked gently. He released it after nearly a minute and applied the same treatment to the other one. Michael began squirming beneath him, clearly desperate for more stimulation. 

Sherlock shifted up onto his knees again and scrambled for the lube. He squirted some into one hand and wrapped it around Michael's erection, slicking it down the shaft. He worked the cock ring off and tossed it aside, and began stroking Michael's cock in earnest. With his other hand, he grasped the base of the anal plug and pulled it out until just the tip was still inside, then plunged it back in again. 

The movements were an interesting challenge to coordinate: quick, firm strokes that focused on the head of Michael's cock, tugging the foreskin up over the glans on every stroke, and rough fucking with the plug. Michael kept his knees pulled back, spreading himself open, but he didn't even try to remain quiet. 

He came with a string of swear words on his lips, several of them taking direct aim at Sherlock's parentage. Sherlock couldn't resist tilting his penis to the side enough to aim a stream of semen right at Mycroft's favorite chair.

"Oh, fucking bloody hell," Michael said, finally releasing his knees. His hands moved to cover his face, and he groaned. "I've never been so glad to come in my life. You are an utter bastard, do you know that?"

Sherlock pulled the plug out of his arsehole, and winced slightly in sympathy at the reddened skin. "You did say you were up for anything, as long as I make you come. And that sounded like a rather spectacular orgasm."

"Yes." It sounded like a fairly reluctant admission.

"So it was worth it, in the end."

"No." Michael dropped his hands and looked up at the ceiling. "Well, maybe. I'm very confused right now."

Sherlock smirked. "Good." 

Michael closed his eyes and winced. "My arse hurts. Jesus fuck, what was that thing?"

Sherlock held up the plug and Michael's eyes narrowed at it. "It felt a lot bigger when it was shoved up me for an hour."

"It was half an hour at most. And you opened right up for me, so I know you liked it."

"No, I don't think I did." Michael's head fell back against the rug. "I'll use it on you one day, and you'll see."

Sherlock chuckled. "Not bloody likely."

Michael was quiet for a long moment. "Why do I let you do this shit, anyway?"

Sherlock crawled over to him and leaned down to kiss him lightly on the lips. "Because you like the end result, I imagine." He pressed his mouth against Michael's, and after a strained moment, Michael yielded, kissing him back with an intensity that caught Sherlock off-guard.

Sherlock pulled out of the kiss and looked down at him. Michael's eyes were still closed, and he looked exhausted. 

"I suppose I do. That's incredibly fucked up."

"Isn't it, though?" Sherlock pushed to his feet and crossed to the bar to pick up a package of cigarettes. He tapped two out and lit them both, then pressed one to Michael's lips. "At least we can be fucked up together."

Michael inhaled deeply and then opened his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling. "Yeah."

*****


	3. Three

"Stay here," Michael half-shouted against the din around them. "I'll get us another round." He disappeared into the crowd and emerged again half a minute later in front of the long stainless steel bar. He wormed his way between the people huddled there and signaled to the bartender, whose flash of a smile was visible even from this distance.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the dance floor, watching the swarm of writhing bodies there. Lights flashed rhythmically on naked chests, drawing his eye to some of the more lewd dancing going on. There were seven couples miming various sexual acts, and another four who appeared not to be miming at all. The mating rituals of homosexual men were rather more fascinating than he'd anticipated. 

Perhaps he should have considered visiting gay clubs before. The atmosphere was surprisingly hypnotic: the volume, the dim lighting, the smoke-filled air, the flashes of colored light, and nearly eighty people high on some variation of alcohol, cocaine, methamphetamines, and adrenalin – all of it combined to induce near sensory overload. The bass beat felt like it was in his chest now, making his heart beat faster than necessary for someone standing still. Dance music was specifically mixed that way, he'd read, to mimic the heartrate of arousal and excitement, to create a feeling of excitement in the listener. Though in his case, it was just as likely the cocaine.

"Here." Michael pressed against his side once again and held out a glass of suspiciously blue liquid. 

Sherlock took it and had a polite sip. Michael was overly fond of edgy cocktails; Sherlock would have preferred a good brandy. "What's this one called?"

"A rim job, I think." Michael grinned.

"More sexual innuendo – exactly what the place was missing." 

"Sling that back and dance with me." 

Michael was already tugging his hand, and Sherlock abandoned the glass on a nearby table, let himself be led towards the dance floor. Once there, Michael wrapped himself around Sherlock and kissed him a bit too enthusiastically. Was that amount of tongue really necessary? Sherlock turned his head out of the kiss and pressed his lips against Michael's neck instead. 

Michael hummed with pleasure. "There's a back room here, you know. Just as you requested."

Sherlock slid his arms around Michael's waist and Michael smiled; such displays of affection seemed to please him. "Good."

"So when are you going to tell me what you've planned?"

"Very soon." Sherlock turned him around and pressed against his back, moving with Michael as he looked around the dance floor. "First, I want you to choose someone." He trailed his lips up Michael's neck. "The hottest man in the room."

"I think he's grinding his cock into my arse right now." Michael tilted his head back to nip at Sherlock's ear. 

Sherlock leaned out of biting range. "Do try to focus. If you could have anyone here, who would it be?"

Michael was quiet for a moment. "Okay, that one, the blond in the blue shirt."

"Swedish tourist," Sherlock said. "Here tonight on his own. Perfect."

Michael laughed. "Yeah, that arse is rather perfect, isn't it?"

Sherlock brushed his lips against Michael's ear. "I want you to suck his cock."

Michael froze against him, stopped moving entirely. "What?"

"You heard me. I want you to take him to the back room, get on your knees, and suck his cock while I watch."

Michael turned to look at him, his eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Because I would find it unbearably erotic." Michael looked suspicious, even uncertain, and Sherlock forced a smile, kissed him in the way that always seemed to make Michael's knees go weak. "I don't want him to touch you or even kiss you – you're all mine. But I want to see you walk over there and tell him you're going to give him the best blow job he's ever had, and I want you to make him come in under three minutes."

"Shit," Michael said, turning to look at the man again. His tongue darted out to brush his lower lip. "And you just want to watch?"

"Yes." 

"Did you bring—"

"In my pocket." 

Michael's eyes remained fixed on his target. "Are you sure about this? Because I have to admit I'd like to do it. But not if it's going to freak you out."

Sherlock chuckled against his neck. "Surely you understand me better than that by now."

"I don't understand you at all most of the time." Michael swallowed, and Sherlock felt the movement of his throat under his lips. "And what about you? Do you want to—" 

"No, I just want to watch you." It was more than that, of course; he wanted to push Michael, to make him do increasingly interesting things, to see just how much control he could exert over another person. The idea was heady, erotic: the thought of Michael on his knees, doing this because Sherlock _told_ him to – it was already affecting him. He ground his half-hard penis against Michael's arse and tried to find words that would convey what he was feeling, words that would make Michael understand – or at least want to comply. He brushed the shell of Michael's ear with his lips. "You've no idea how much I want to watch this, how hot it would be for me to see you with him."

Michael exhaled, shivered just slightly. "Oh, God, you… All right. I'll do it." 

He turned and pressed a hard kiss to Sherlock's mouth and then slid a hand into Sherlock's pocket. He pulled out a condom and lifted it to his forehead in a mock salute, then grinned and walked across the dance floor towards the man, a cocky spring in his step already. Sherlock stayed rooted to the spot, unmoving in the midst of the dancing crowd, watching as Michael wrapped a hand around the man's bicep and leaned up to whisper in his ear. The expression on the man's face shifted to one of surprise and then interest, and when Michael turned to look at Sherlock, the man's eyes followed. 

Sherlock shifted his stance without thinking, melted into the role of boyfriend/voyeur, and stared back at the two of them. He smiled, just enough to convey his interest, but not enough to leave any doubt as to who was in control here. The man nodded very slightly at Sherlock and then turned back to Michael. A moment later, they were heading off of the dance floor toward a doorway in the back corner of the club. 

Sherlock followed, winding through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances of people he pushed past. Michael and his target disappeared around a corner, and it was a moment before Sherlock's eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dim recessed bulbs along the ceiling provided the only light, and the dark paint on the walls seemed to absorb much of it before it reached the room's occupants – and that was likely how they preferred it. Across the room, Michael's target leaned against the wall and pulled Michael toward him with one hand. Sherlock made his way past couples in various arrangements of sexual congress and leaned against the wall next to them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. 

Michael fell to his knees and began unfastening the man's trousers. The concrete floor was sticky with all manner of substances, and Sherlock's nose wrinkled. Michael's trousers would likely need to be burned by the end of the night. It was a small sacrifice, though; definitely worth it.

"This is Sherlock," Michael said, indicating him with a tilt of his head.

"Pleasure," Sherlock replied as he lit his cigarette. He exhaled a stream of smoke above his head and fixed the man with a steady gaze.

"Fredrik. You two do this often?"

Sherlock smiled at the hint of an accent and said, "Yes," at the exact same moment that Michael said, "No." Sherlock laughed and Michael rolled his eyes, and Fredrik's eyes narrowed.

"Sorry, love." Sherlock raised the cigarette to his lips again. "I forgot that you like them to feel special." He exhaled and shrugged as casually as he could manage. "I like to watch him suck cocks. He's rather good at it."

Fredrik's smile was cool. "You only watch?"

"Yes. It won't be a threesome, if that's what you mean."

Fredrik threaded a hand in Michael's hair, and Michael continued to unfasten his trousers. "Pity."

"Isn't it just?" Michael said, staring at Fredrik's cock with an expression of sheer hunger. 

It was an interesting cock, Sherlock had to concede, and rather larger than average. Sherlock tilted his head to get a better look as Michael ripped open the condom packet and rolled it on. It appeared to be a fairly tight fit. 

Fredrik chuckled and tugged Michael's head towards his groin. Michael seemed to calculate for a moment, then opened his mouth wide and sucked Fredrik's cock in as far as he could manage – which was farther than Sherlock had expected, _fuck_. Fredrik groaned appreciatively and Michael went to work, his head bobbing and his lips stretched obscenely around the thick cock in front of him. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around the base of the shaft and tugged at Fredrik's balls with the other.

"Fuck, yes," Fredrik said through clenched teeth. "You are good at this." The hand resting on top of Michael's head slid to the back of his skull and pushed slightly. "Can you take more? Oh, just like that."

Sherlock took a long drag off the cigarette. His brain was blazing now, fueled by the cocktail of cocaine and alcohol, nicotine and endorphins, and the sight before him was maddeningly perfect. Michael was so beautifully willing to try things, to let Sherlock bend him and twist him. Fredrik pushed a bit too hard and Michael made a soft sound and winced, and the jolt of arousal that Sherlock felt was enough to make him close his eyes for a moment. 

_God_ , that was… Sherlock glanced at his watch: one minute so far. Michael had two more minutes to finish him off.

Time ticked by excruciatingly slowly, punctuated by the gasps of people around them, sounds of other orgasms happening in the darkness, the very male scents of sweat and semen mixed with lube and latex. Michael's mouth moved rhythmically, the line of his throat interrupted by swallows and shadow. His eyes were open, occasionally darting up to Fredrik's face, to his chest heaving beneath the tight blue t-shirt. 

At last Fredrik clenched his jaw, tightened his hand in Michael's hair, and grunted as his head fell back against the wall. Sherlock glanced at his watch and smirked, then stubbed out the cigarette on the wall. Michael sat back on his heels and grinned. 

"Four minutes, fifteen seconds," Sherlock said, fixing him with a mock stern look. 

Michael laughed and looked up at him. "You actually timed it?"

"That was fast, for me." They both turned to look at Fredrik, who was tugging off the condom. "It usually takes much longer."

"Perhaps so, but not fast enough for the game we're playing." Sherlock pushed off the wall. "Come, Michael. I'll give you another chance." He turned away and headed back to the dance floor, and pointedly ignored the indignant sputtering behind him.

He was nearly back to the bar before Michael caught his wrist and spun him around. 

"What the fuck are you playing at?"

Sherlock glanced down at the fingers digging into his wrist and frowned. Michael released him, but the bewildered expression on his face didn't diminish.

"Your task was to make him come in under three minutes, and you did not complete it. So pick another one and we'll try again."

Michael gaped at him for a full second, and then laughed. "You're full of shit, do you know that? For a moment there, I believed you." Sherlock stared back at him, and Michael's smile faded. "You're serious? You can't be serious."

"Three minutes, and not a second more." Sherlock paused to straighten the cuffs of his shirt, and then raised his eyebrow at Michael. Michael's face was a storm of emotion, and for a moment Sherlock suspected he'd finally pushed too far. Michael looked away, out across the dance floor, and then turned a defiant face back to Sherlock.

"What do I get, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"If I decide to play your game, what do I get when I win?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Isn't pleasing me reward enough in itself?"

"Fuck you, no. I want something in return. Something well worth sucking half a dozen cocks for your amusement." He raised his eyebrows, as if in challenge.

So now they were negotiating for control. Interesting. Sherlock stared back at him for a moment, running through several scenarios at once. What would Michael want in return? What was Sherlock willing to offer? He waited to see if Michael would suggest something, but he remained silent, waiting – letting Sherlock take the lead in this as he did in nearly everything else.

And yes, there was something Michael wanted but wouldn't ask for: to be given the opportunity to take the lead, to have some control over Sherlock, for once. Sherlock pursed his lips and considered. He found the idea moderately distasteful, but he could bear it for a short while, of course. It would be a small sacrifice, and the precedent it set could be a rather useful one, should he want to continue with these sorts of games in the future. 

Sherlock reached out for Michael, grasped one shoulder and pulled him close, and pressed his lips to Michael's ear. "I'll let you fuck me."

Michael leaned back and stared up at his face, clearly astonished. They'd never discussed anal sex at all, and the only arse play they'd engaged in had been completely one-sided. Michael's eyes sparked with interest now, though, and his earlier anger faded away completely. The corners of his lips turned up very slowly into an expression far more like a smirk than a smile. Sherlock felt a small thrill of satisfaction: he'd guessed correctly.

"You're on. But first—" He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and tugged him away from the dance floor, over to one of the dark booths lining the walls of the club. He pushed Sherlock toward the booth and moved around him to slide across one of the wooden benches. He pulled a small bag from his pocket, carefully poured its contents on the table, and then dug into his pocket.

Sherlock settled on the bench opposite and smirked. "Need a bit of courage?"

"Fuck you, I'm coming down." He used a credit card to break up small clumps of cocaine and then divided the pile into four neat lines. He then rolled a ten pound note into a tight roll and used it to snort two of the lines, one with each nostril. "Yeah, fuck. That's going to hit fucking hard." He held out the rolled bill. 

Sherlock took it and finished the other two lines. It was a glorious high, far better than the calming clarity of nicotine or the euphoric numbing of heroin, or anything else he'd tried. He could already feel his neurons firing faster, could pinpoint the moment his brain began to work more efficiently. It was glorious. 

He opened his eyes to see Michael standing, hopping lightly on the balls of his feet. He eyes were focused on the crowd, all business now. "There's got to be a few minute men in here. How about that one?" He started off across the floor without waiting for a reply, and Sherlock could barely stifle his grin.

He watched as Michael walked over to a dark-haired man who'd been eyeing the dance floor wistfully – _25 years old, closeted at work and to his family, mediocre stockbroker, never had a serious boyfriend – no, there was likely one, years ago, but it ended badly – here tonight looking for a quick shag, wanked before he came_ (better not to warn Michael about that – God that was fucking good cocaine) –and nearly laughed aloud at the expression on the man's face when Michael whispered into his ear. Michael nodded his head to indicate the door to the back room, and turned away, not even glancing back to see if the man would follow. The man stared after Michael for a moment, blinking as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened, and then downed the rest of his drink and followed.

By the time Sherlock wormed his way through the crowd and into the darkness of the back room, Michael already had Stockbroker pushed up against the wall. He looked over his shoulder as if sensing Sherlock's arrival, and grinned wickedly before dropping to his knees and working on Stockbroker's flies. "Give me a condom." 

Sherlock fished one out of his pocket and tossed it; Michael caught it easily. "Ta. You gonna time me?"

"Of course." The cocaine was really starting to kick in now and his brain was racing, clear, on _fire_. He briefly considered timing them mentally – he knew without a doubt that he could, accurate to 0.5 seconds – but Michael would likely prefer hard evidence. He pressed a few buttons on his watch. "Ready when you are." 

"Wait, what's this?" Stockbroker was glancing back and forth between them, clearly uneasy.

Michael laughed and ripped open the condom packet. "Easy, love. My boyfriend likes to watch. You don't mind?"

Stockbroker stared over at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "Just watch?"

"Yes, of course. I'm timing him as well. Or, I suppose, timing _you_. You don't mind, do you?"

Stockbroker blinked and looked down at Michael again. "What the fuck for?"

"We have a bet," Michael told him, now easing his pants down to reveal a half-hard cock dangling between his pale thighs. "He doesn't think I can get you off in less than three minutes." He let his gaze fall to Stockbroker's cock and tilted his head appraisingly, then wet his lips. "But I believe it's worth a shot, don't you?"

"What do you win?" 

"I finally get to fuck him." Michael's eyes sparkled and he looked over at Sherlock. "And I really _really_ want to do that."

Sherlock smirked in response. This plan was working out so much better than he'd anticipated. 

Stockbroker stared down at Michael for a long moment, and then shook his head and laughed. "That is ridiculously fucked up. What happens if you lose?"

Michael gave Stockbroker's cock a few long strokes and then rolled the condom on. "I never lose," he said, and then swallowed Stockbroker's cock in one smooth movement. 

Stockbroker turned out to be a lip biter, much to Sherlock's amusement. He also didn't seem sure what to do with his hands, and settled for placing them rather awkwardly on his hips. Michael put in a serious effort, even breaking out in a sweat near the end. Stockbroker's hands were finally in Michael's hair by the time he came, pulling Michael against his belly hard enough that Michael pushed off with no small amount of annoyance. He gasped and slid down the wall afterwards, and Michael grinned up at Sherlock.

"Well?"

"Three minutes, forty seconds."

Michael's cocky grin faded. "What? No, that's impossible."

Sherlock unfastened his wrist watch and handed it over so that he could see the timer stopped on 3:40. Michael pulled a face and tossed it back to him. 

"Fuck. Okay, one more, then."

The next man was a tall ginger named Brad who turned out to be a visiting American university student. Sherlock told Michael when the three-minute mark was passed, and Michael pulled off with a groan and finished Brad with his hand. 

They had a round of drinks after that, during which Michael lamented that they'd already snorted all the cocaine. 

Number four was a plump ruddy-faced student whom Sherlock suspected was actually underage. 

"You've got three minutes to come," Michael told him as he rolled the condom on. "When three minutes are done, I'm going to walk away. Got it?"

"It'd be a hell of a lot easier if I didn't have an audience." He stared at Sherlock with narrow eyes.

"Ignore him," Michael said. "No, don't even look at him. He's trying to freak you out. Eyes on me."

Sherlock smirked: it was like telling someone not to think of an elephant. Number Four's eyes darted between Michael and Sherlock the entire time, and when Sherlock signaled that three minutes were up, Michael didn't say a word. He pulled off, stood, and stalked off, leaving Number Four gaping in surprise.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do about this?" he asked, gesturing down at his condom-covered erection.

Sherlock gave him an arch look and walked away. Michael was already wrapped around another man on the dance floor by the time he got there, and Sherlock leaned against the wall to watch. This game had been far more interesting than he'd expected. Michael's mounting desperation was thrilling, exhilarating. Perhaps the task he'd set was an impossible one, considering the amount of alcohol and drugs most of the club's patrons were consuming. How far could he push Michael tonight? How many times would he do this until he admitted defeat? And what else would he be willing to do for the privilege of fucking Sherlock? 

Michael didn't even look at Sherlock when he tugged Number Five through the doorway. Sherlock followed and leaned against the wall next to where Michael had positioned the man. He pulled a condom packet out of his pocket and tossed it to Michael. 

"This is the last condom, by the way." 

"Then I suppose I'd best pull out all the stops for this one."

"Giving up so soon?" Sherlock pulled a cigarette from the pocket and raised it to his lips. "There's a machine in the toilets, you know. Three for a quid."

"Are you going to suck me off or not?" 

They both turned to look at the man Michael had pulled in from the dance floor. He was tall and rather burly, with a tight black t-shirt. Sherlock frowned: _steroid abuse, covering up massive insecurities, possible difficulty maintaining an erection_. He chuckled.

"What?" Michael asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I wouldn't choose this one if I were you."

"What the fuck?" The man pushed off the wall and loomed menacingly close. "Back off. He invited me back for a quick one, and he didn't say nothin' about no audience."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced down at Michael. "Honestly, this is the best you can do?"

Michael sat back on his heels and frowned. "No, it's not, actually. Never mind, mate." He stood and started to walk away.

The man reached out to grab Michael's wrist, but Sherlock stepped in before he quite got there and pressed him back against the wall with a hand around his throat. 

"I don't think you want to fuck with us tonight, _mate_." He glared and tightened his hand around the man's throat, and smirked when his expression shifted to something akin to panic. He'd guessed correctly then.

"Easy, shit. You can have 'im if you really want him." 

Sherlock stepped back and straightened the cuffs on his shirt. He gave the man one more dismissive glance before turning and walking away.

Michael lunged for him when he emerged onto the dance floor, and Sherlock found himself at the receiving end of an extremely invasive kiss.

"God, that was so fucking hot," Michael said, his mouth making its way across Sherlock's jaw now. "That bloke had two stone on you, nearly three, and you just—" His words faded into a moan against Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock couldn't help smirking. "Are you forfeiting, then?"

Michael pulled back and looked away, across the club. His eyes swept the crowd and then settled back on Sherlock's again. "Hell, no. I never quit and I never lose." He leaned in and bit down on Sherlock's earlobe, hard enough that Sherlock winced. "And you're not going to be able to sit down for a week when I'm done with you."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "You've got to earn it first."

"Don't worry. I will." Michael took two steps backward, and the expression on his face was startlingly dark. He turned and walked away again, and Sherlock exhaled slowly. Had he pushed too far? It wasn't clear; his brain was becoming frustratingly thick as the cocaine high wore off. He swallowed and pressed the now slightly mauled cigarette between his lips again, and fumbled in his pocket for a lighter. 

By the time he'd lit the cigarette and taken a satisfying pull from it, Michael was already steering his next target into the back room. Sherlock leaned back against the wall and exhaled, then pushed off to follow.

He rounded the corner once again to see Michael rolling a condom on the erection of a young man with more tattoos and piercings than Sherlock had ever seen displayed on a single human being. Even his penis was tattooed, which sent Sherlock down a spiral of tangential thoughts for nearly a full minute.

"Ready?" Michael said, snapping him back to the present. He clamped the cigarette between his teeth and set the timer on his watch, then looked back up at Michael again. "Don't start timing until I touch him."

"Of course." Sherlock frowned: what did he mean by that? 

A small crowd gathered around – apparently it had become obvious that there was a competition of some sort going on – and money began to exchange hands. Michael seemed oblivious to it all, though; his focus narrowed to the task before him. He stared at the cock hanging in front of his face for a long moment, and then looked up. The expression on his face was one Sherlock had never seen before. It was pure sex, heat, lust, and it had the desired effect: Tattooed Man's smile broadened and his eyes almost glazed over. 

"You want to fuck my mouth?" Michael asked, leaning close enough to breathe against the thin latex, but still not quite touching.

"Yeah." 

"You want to ram it down my throat and choke me with it? God, I hope you do. I hope I can't even fucking breathe."

"That's right, you little cock-slut." He stroked Michael's hair with one inked hand. "And if you pass out, I'll keep fucking your mouth until I come down your throat."

"Yes, fuck my mouth, do it." Michael's eyes fluttered closed as if the very idea had sent him into near-ecstasy.

"Take, it, take it all," the man said, and he sank his hands into Michael's hair and pressed his cock between Michael's lips, the expression on his face indicating he was half-gone already.

Sherlock swore softly around the cigarette. No one noticed, though; everyone's eyes were glued on the action. That had been… _brilliant_ , as loath as he was to admit it. Michael had read the man, had worked out exactly what he wanted, and even though Sherlock knew for a fact that Michael wasn't the slightest bit turned on by the idea of choking on a cock until he passed out, he'd been completely convincing. It was astonishingly hot. 

Michael made small moaning sounds around the man's cock, sounds that could have been from pain or pleasure, or a mix of both, and the effect it had on the target was undeniable. The man's hips were rocking back and forth, pressing his cock deep into Michael's throat and pulling out again, over and over at a pace Sherlock wasn't certain he could have accommodated himself. Yet Michael appeared to be enjoying it, relishing it, even. He pressed one hand against his trousers and squeezed, as if rubbing his own cock through the fabric.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed: he knew what Michael looked like with an erection, and he clearly didn't have one now, but Sherlock doubted anyone watching would be aware that it was an act. Michael was very good at this, better than Sherlock had previously realized. Did that mean he'd been acting with Sherlock, all this time, that he had only pretended to enjoy their sexual encounters? He felt a strange twist in his chest at the thought.

If it were true, did it matter? Sherlock was satisfied with the arrangement between them. Michael had so far agreed to play these increasingly interesting games, and he rarely complained or resisted. He allowed Sherlock full access to his body, to his nervous system, and even, to an extent, to his brain. And in return, he'd received… sexual pleasure, at the very least. Companionship, certainly. Was that enough? It occurred to Sherlock that he'd never asked what Michael wanted. He'd assumed. He frowned.

"Yes, take it, you little whore, swallow it down, choke on it, ahhhh."

The porn-worthy dialogue pulled Sherlock out of his thoughts, back to the scene before him. Michael was genuinely red in the face now, and though he was trying to keep up the charade, it was clear he wasn't enjoying the encounter quite as much as he wanted the target to believe.

Sherlock glanced down at his watch, only to realize that he'd forgotten to start the timer. _Shit._ He looked up again, and it was clear that the man was close, almost finished, just a few strokes more and that would be all. Sherlock's stomach clenched. If it wasn't over soon, he'd call time, and then they'd go home, perhaps call it a draw. It was pointless to continue, anyway: he'd got what he wanted out of this. Michael had demonstrated his willingness to expand the game, and the possibilities were nearly limitless. 

The man finally came with a grunt and Michael pulled off, sputtering for breath. He sank back on his heels and panted, and seemed to steel himself before looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his lip for moment and then let his expression fold into a cool smile. "Two minutes, 55 seconds. We have a winner."

Michael grinned triumphantly and pushed to his feet, and Sherlock turned and walked away before any of the gathered crowd could contradict him. 

Michael caught him halfway across the dance floor with a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock turned to look at him. Michael stared at him for a moment before leaning in and kissing him roughly. He tasted like latex and smelled of the mingled sweat of the last few men he'd sucked, and the combination was simultaneously disgusting and intriguing.

"Where do you think you're going?" Michael's grip on his arm tightened to the point of pain. "I want my prize."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. Michael intended to do it here, in front of all of those people in the back room. He supposed it was fair, considering, but the thought of it was… uncomfortable. No, not here, not with these people watching. He didn't expect to enjoy the act, but he at least wanted it to occur in private.

"You'll get it soon enough. I'll hail a cab." He pried Michael's hand off of his bicep and turned again, walking swiftly for the entrance of the club. He didn't look back to see if Michael was following. 

The cool, damp air of the night hit his face and he exhaled, desperate for a cigarette, for a hit, for a drink, for _something_ , anything to take the edge off of this sudden anxiety coursing through his veins. He raised his hand as an empty cab approached, and then Michael's shoulder pressed against his. 

"A solid week, Sherlock. I promise you that." 

Sherlock turned to look at him, at the darkly smug expression on his face, and looked away again. The taxi stopped at the kerb and the driver rolled the window down, and Sherlock gave him the address. 

He felt Michael's hand slide under his coat, across his arse, and then press up between his buttocks, shoving the fabric uncomfortably between. 

"I can't wait to get these off of you." Michael's breath was hot against his ear, almost wet. "I may shove my whole fist up there, just to see if you can take it."

Sherlock pushed his hand away and shot him a mild glare. "Get in the cab."

Michael smirked and opened the door, and then Sherlock realized exactly what he needed to regain his equilibrium. He leaned close to the window again and caught the driver's eye. "I'll give you a hundred quid if you don't look back and don't say a word."

The cabbie's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. Sherlock slid onto the seat next to Michael and closed the door, and the cab pulled away. He turned to look at Michael, who was still grinning triumphantly, and the spike of anger and anxiety he felt nearly derailed him. He unbuttoned his coat and unfastened his trousers, and before Michael even had a chance to ask him what he was doing, he grabbed the back of Michael's head and pushed his face down into his lap.

"Just one more to go, and I'm all yours. Make me come before we get there, or you'll have to settle for watching me wank."

Michael twisted out of his grip and glared at him. "I won! You can't change the fucking rules."

"You didn't win, the last time. I was merely getting bored of it."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "The fuck I didn't. You're lying."

Sherlock snorted. "Honestly, did that feel like three minutes to you?"

Michael hesitated for a moment and then looked away. "No. It felt like ten."

"Then you've got one more." He pushed his trousers and pants down enough to free his half-hard cock, and Michael stared down at it. "I estimate you have ten minutes before we arrive, so you'd best get started."

Michael remained still for a moment more, and then leaned over Sherlock's lap. Sherlock felt his cock engulfed in wet heat, felt that tongue swirl against sensitive skin, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the seat. He tangled his fingers in Michael's hair and yes, this was it, this was what he needed. He was in control of this, and nothing would happen that he didn't explicitly want. And Michael knew it, had just conceded it, and it was glorious.

He opened his eyes again and watched Michael's head bob in his lap. His eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror, but the cabbie seemed to be honoring the agreement.

"You were gorgeous tonight, do you know that?" Sherlock couldn't keep the hitch from his breath when Michael took him down to the root, swallowing obscenely. "You were perfect, so very good for me."

Michael made a small whimpering sound and Sherlock petted his head. He let the images of the evening play across his mind, of Michael on his knees, letting his mouth be used and fucked, all because Sherlock had asked him to do it. All for Sherlock.

Streetlights flashed across Michael's hair as he moved, and Sherlock was reminded of the lights on the dance floor of the club, colors striping the tight white shirt he'd worn, now covered by his jacket. The way Michael had moved against him and pulled him close, before Sherlock had explained why they were there – he'd been happy to be out, to play the part of Sherlock's boyfriend.

But it wasn't a part – or was it? Was that what they were? 

Michael's hand worked between his thighs and tugged gently on his testicles, and Sherlock stroked his hair in appreciation. The other hand was wrapped around the base, stroking the shaft while Michael's mouth worked the glans, his tongue wriggling furiously against the frenulum, with just enough suction to— 

The beginnings of his orgasm caught him by surprise, knocked him back against the seat with a hand over his mouth to stifle the impulse to cry out. He'd intended to last until the cab turned onto the street, to keep Michael working for it until the very last moment, but his control was faltering, his emotions suddenly raging. The intensity was startling and he tightened his hands in Michael's hair, belatedly realizing that the noise Michael made was probably more one of pain than pleasure. Michael kept sucking him through it, pulling every last tremor of orgasm from his body before sitting back and wiping a hand across his mouth. 

Sherlock scrubbed at his face with his hands and fastened his trousers, and looked over at him. Michael stared out the window and tapped lightly on the glass with one finger. His face was turned away enough that Sherlock couldn't see his expression, though the tension in his body was clear. 

Sherlock tossed a handful of bills at the smirking cabbie before following Michael up the front steps of the brownstone. He unlocked the door and gestured Michael through. The house was dark and quiet as Michael led the way up the stairs to Sherlock's room. He waited by the door for Sherlock to open it and then closed it behind him. Sherlock didn't turn to look at him; he undressed quickly and dropped his clothes to the floor, and then stood in the center of the room. Artificial light filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting odd shadows on the floor. Michael's face was wrapped in darkness still; his arms were folded across his chest and his feet were planted wide, and Sherlock felt oddly vulnerable. He hadn't let himself think much about what would happen. It was only his body, after all, and he could handle a certain amount of pain, but now he found the idea of giving Michael control in such a direct way to be… unpleasant. 

No matter, though: Michael had fulfilled his end of the deal and now it was Sherlock's turn. He forced a smile and crossed to the bedside table, then tossed a condom packet and bottle of lube onto the bed before looking across the room.

"How do you want me?"

Michael stepped forward then, took a handful of steps until they were standing face to face. He reached out with one hand to touch Sherlock's cheek, and for a moment Sherlock thought Michael would kiss him. He didn't, though; he dropped his hand again and didn't smile. "On your stomach."

"Right." Sherlock stretched out on the bed and pillowed his face on his forearms, and waited. He heard the sound of a zip being drawn down and the rustle of fabric as Michael removed his trousers and pants. The mattress dipped and one of Michael's knees nudged Sherlock's thighs apart before settling between them.

"Lift," Michael said, and positioned a pillow under Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. His arse was in the air now and with his thighs spread, he felt completely exposed. Michael's hands smoothed down his back and over his buttocks, and then pressed them apart. 

"You've no idea how often I've fantasized about this," Michael said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. Sherlock felt a fingertip trace a circle around his anus and his body twitched involuntarily. Michael chuckled. "No one's ever touched you here, have they? I'll be the first."

There was a pause and then something cold and slick dripped onto his anus, and Sherlock sucked in a breath. It was followed by Michael's finger again, pressing inside him in a quick, rough movement. The sensation was odd, and it felt different than when he'd done it to himself. Michael pressed the finger in to the knuckle and pulled it out again, and _oh_ , that was bizarre. Even more lube, and then the finger returned, sliding in and out, twisting a bit. The tissue of the rectum was remarkably sensitive, more so than he'd realized.

There was more pressure then, and Sherlock realized there were two fingers inside him now. The stretch was more intense, but nothing he'd call painful. He felt himself start to relax – perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult after all. 

"God, this is so hot, seeing you like this. I could do this for hours."

Sherlock stifled a groan of annoyance. "I thought you wanted to fuck me."

Michael's fingers stilled. "I want you to ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me to fuck you."

Sherlock felt a wave of irritation. The idea of begging for something that he'd already offered seemed ridiculous now that it was turned around. "Fine. Fuck me."

Michael's fingers slid out and there was a sharp slap on Sherlock's arse. "No, Sherlock. _Ask_. Nicely."

Sherlock sighed as dramatically as he could manage with his face pressed against the duvet. "Please, won't you fuck me, Michael?"

"I suppose it was too much to hope for no sarcasm."

The muttered "Definitely" earned him another stinging slap. Michael didn't seem to want to press the issue though; the mattress moved a bit as Michael sat back on his heels. Sherlock heard the sound of a condom package being ripped open, and then there was a soft slick sound as Michael rolled it on.

One of Michael's hands moved back to his hips, and Sherlock felt the head of Michael's cock press against his anus. It felt an order of magnitude larger than a fingertip, and though he knew in theory that this was physically possible, discomfort was beginning to seem like a distinct possibility. 

"God, I'm going to enjoy this," Michael said, and then he pushed forward.

The severity of the pain caught Sherlock completely by surprise. He jerked forward, but Michael held his hips tight and grunted, and didn't stop pushing in. Sherlock's eyes watered and his hands clenched the duvet beneath him, and he couldn't stop himself from making a strangled sound. 

"Jesus, you idiot, you've got to relax. It's not supposed to hurt." Michael's voice sounded strained, as if he was in pain as well.

"Easy for you to say," Sherlock managed through gritted teeth. To his immense frustration, his body absolutely refused to listen to his brain, instead continuing its campaign to push the intruder out. It was infuriating, and _fuck_ , it hurt, with no sign of abating. Worse, he had no idea how long he'd have to bear it; he'd spent the last few weeks trying to delay Michael's orgasms as long as possible.

"Here, just let me—" Michael's cock began to retreat slightly, and for a moment Sherlock thought he was going to pull out, but he stopped and pushed in again, and this time Sherlock couldn't stop himself from groaning in pain. "Fucking relax, you git."

"Just fuck me already and get it over with!"

Michael stilled behind him for a moment before muttering, "Fine." He began to move at a rapid pace then, pumping his cock into Sherlock's arse. 

Sherlock worked to even out his breathing, desperately trying to regain control of his body's response. Slowly, the pain began to ease as his sphincter relaxed, and he groaned in relief. Now it just felt… _bizarre_. The friction was annoying and the sense of fullness made him uncomfortable, and he began to wonder when it would be over.

"There, that's it. Better now, right?" Michael's grip on his hip loosened, and a hand smoothed over Sherlock's lower back. He paused with his cock pressed all the way in, and leaned over to place a kiss between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Now, get up on your knees a bit more. You're going to like this, I promise."

Sherlock rolled his eyes into the pillow as he complied. He felt ridiculous with his arse in the air like this. There was a sound of footsteps from the floor above, and Sherlock went completely still.

"Big brother home early?" Michael chuckled softly and began moving again, and the angle was different now. "What would he think if he saw his baby brother with a cock up his arse?"

Sherlock felt a momentary stab of panic at the thought before pushing it aside. Logically, Mycroft probably already knew they were here, and he'd likely be able to work out what was going on no matter how discreet they were. "Very little I do shocks him."

"If you can still form sentences, I must not have found it yet." Michael shifted forward and changed the angle yet again.

Sherlock's lips were forming the words _found what?_ when he felt Michael's cock press against his prostate, and _oh, right_ – he'd forgotten that was one of the main goals of this activity. He angled his hips a bit more and yes, there – it felt good, more so than he'd expected. 

"Like that, do you? I thought you would." Michael's hands smoothed over his buttocks and pressed them apart, apparently enjoying the sight of his penis disappearing into Sherlock's body. "I knew that if I could just get you like this, you'd be a slut for it. God, you look hot like this. Maybe next time I'll tie your hands to the bedrails, see how you like it when you just have to take it." 

The arousal that had begun building in Sherlock dissipated almost instantly. No, that wasn't what he wanted, and neither was this. Michael had fulfilled his part of the bargain and so Sherlock would as well, but he had no intention of ever letting Michael get him in this position again.

Michael continued his feeble attempts at erotic talk, but Sherlock didn't listen. He barely paid attention to what was happening to his body; he let this mind drift to other things, to the thought of what he'd do to Michael next time, to when he might be able to acquire some more cocaine, and to whether or not Mycroft had worked out what they were up to. He became aware that Michael's pace was becoming more erratic, which somehow accentuated the irritation he was beginning to feel in his arse, and gritted his teeth.

"Oh, fuck, yeah, that's… I'm…" Michael pressed deep into him and groaned, and finally went still. 

Sherlock couldn't help groaning in relief. He had to grit his teeth while Michael pulled out, and then he rolled over onto his back and sat up. Carefully.

Michael pulled off the condom and made a face. "You might want to go clean up."

Sherlock shot him a mild glare and headed for the en suite. Michael was standing at the window when Sherlock returned, staring out. 

"Was it worth it?" Sherlock asked after a moment. 

"Worth what?" 

"Performing oral sex on strangers. Was it worth that just to get to fuck me?"

Michael didn't turn around. "You didn't enjoy that at all, did you?"

"No."

"Was it worth it to you to see me debase myself over and over again?"

"Yes." Sherlock crossed to the bedside table and fumbled for his cigarettes.

Michael was quiet for a while, and Sherlock smoked his cigarette and let him alone. The tension between them was obvious, and he wasn't sure what to say or do next. His instincts usually were wrong in this sort of situation. 

"What the fuck are we doing, anyway?"

"Having a bit of fun, last I checked." Sherlock took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette against the varnished surface of the table.

"Fun," Michael repeated. "We get high, and I let you do freaky shit to me."

"You like it."

"No, I don't." Michael finally turned to look at him. "I like _you_ , Sherlock, and you apparently like massively warped sex."

Sherlock pressed his lips together. This wasn't right – they'd discussed it early on, and Michael had known what Sherlock wanted. Hadn't he? A strange sensation filled his chest, something akin to panic. "You said you wanted to experiment."

"No, _you_ said that. I thought it would be every now and then, you know, just occasionally tying each other up or something." He stopped and shook his head. "But it seems to be a one way street. You have no intention of letting me do those things to you, do you?"

Sherlock shook his head and looked away.

Michael sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "This is just… this is the most fucked up relationship I've ever been in. I don't even… I don't know. Fuck it, I'm going to go now." 

The panic shifted into something else now, something hollow, and Sherlock didn't know what to say. 

Michael didn't look at him as he dressed. Sherlock sat naked on the bed and watched him, his mind spinning. He'd been certain Michael had enjoyed it these last few weeks. How had he read it all so wrong? 

Michael crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. He didn't look back, and his shoulders sagged. "I'll ring you in a few days, yeah?"

"If you like."

Michael hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, but he didn't. He opened the door and showed himself out.

Sherlock curled up on his bed in the darkness, and tried very hard not to think.

*****


	4. Four

His phone didn't ring for four days. When it finally rang, he dug it out of his pocket and stared at it for so long that people around him in the library began shooting him glares. He took a deep breath and flipped it open. 

"Michael."

" _Sherlock. Look, I'm only going to say this once, so shut up and listen, all right?_ "

Sherlock sighed into the phone.

" _The only way I can do this thing with you is if I can convince myself it's something that can approximate normal and sane. So I want us to start by going out somewhere, like to dinner, on a real date. And if that goes well, I want us to have completely normal, vanilla sex, where no one is tied up and we both just enjoy it. And if that goes well, we'll see._ "

Sherlock closed his eyes. He wasn't normal. He wasn't anything close to normal in any area of his life, and especially not in this one. And he didn't particularly want to be. If this was a dealbreaker for Michael, then it was probably best to end it now. Make a clean break, and then delete the whole thing. 

He should say that, should say, "No, this isn't going to work out. Goodbye." But he found he couldn't say anything.

There was a soft sigh from the other end of the line. " _Sherlock… It's not that I didn't enjoy it. I just need to know that's not all it's ever going to be._ "

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Sherlock was satisfied with the way things had been, had enjoyed it far more than he'd ever expected. But it wasn't enough for Michael. _He_ wasn't enough, and he never would be.

"So you're giving me an ultimatum."

" _No, I – okay, I see how it probably sounds like that, but… Fuck. I really like you, all right?_ "

Sherlock couldn't deny that he enjoyed Michael's company, even before they'd started having sex. These last few weeks had been some of the best of his life. He ought to have known there would be a price to pay for it. But if he could keep it, any of it, maybe he could bear the pretense of being normal, ordinary – boring – just a bit. It would be an interesting challenge, at the very least.

"All right."

" _Okay, good._ " Relief was apparent in Michael's voice. " _How about Friday night? Proper dinner date and all that?_ "

Sherlock closed his eyes, grimaced. "Yes, of course. I'll make a reservation."

He cut the call before he could change his mind.

*****

"Sherlock."

Sherlock paused with his hand on the railing, and turned to look down at Mycroft standing on the main floor below. Mycroft's face was schooled into a mask of neutrality, and Sherlock groaned.

"Oh, God, we're not actually going to start doing this now, are we? Brotherly concern has hardly been your area."

"And romance has hardly been yours."

"It isn't romance, Mycroft; it's simply fucking."

"Judging by the expression on young Mr. Trevor's face when he left a few nights ago, and by the way you've done little more than mope despondently about the house ever since, I suspect you're wrong about that." Mycroft's concern was genuine, but he couldn't seem to help the tiniest hint of a superior smirk that formed on the corners of his lips. 

Sherlock fixed his brother with a cold glare. "It's none of your concern, is it?"

Mycroft's expression hardened. "It is while you live in my house."

" _Our_ house."

"Don't change the subject, Sherlock."

"Oh, I see. You're shocked and dismayed to learn that your baby brother takes it up the arse. Is that it?"

Mycroft didn't reply, and Sherlock turned away, continued up the stairs. He was nearly at the door of his bedroom when he heard his brother's voice again, accompanied by his footsteps on the stairs.

"Just be careful, will you?"

Sherlock didn't turn to look. "I'm always careful."

Mycroft paused at the top of the stairs. "If only that were true."

"I'm not taking risks with my health or his."

Mycroft made a small sound of frustration. "That's not what I meant."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and turned to look at him. "Then be plain about it, would you?"

"He cares for you more than you realize. And we both know you're incapable of returning the feeling."

"Shouldn't you be badgering him not to break my heart instead of the other way 'round?"

"If I was certain you had one, I would." Mycroft turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock staring after him.

*****

Ten minutes in, it was clear that this had been a terrible idea. Once the server had taken the menus away and they'd been forced to look at one another, Michael had done little but chatter about ridiculous nonsense. Sherlock hated pointless small talk, and he'd thought Michael felt the same. Honestly, if this was really what relationships were like, he wanted no part of it.

"And then I said I wouldn't have it, you know? Can you believe they thought…?" Sherlock's eyes focused back on Michael's face, and Michael paused and sighed, and looked away. "Oh, God, I'm blathering like an idiot, aren't I? I'm incredibly fucking nervous tonight."

"Why?"

Michael's expression became incredulous. "Aren't you?"

"It will either be apparent that we can continue our relationship, or it won't. Frankly, I'm feeling rather pessimistic about it at the moment. Perhaps the sex will be better."

Michael blinked at him for a moment, and then laughed. It had been a while since Sherlock had heard him laugh so genuinely, and he couldn't help but smile in response.

"And there's the Sherlock I've missed these last few weeks."

The server brought their drinks, providing a momentary distraction, and Sherlock realized Michael had thought he'd been joking.

Michael was still smiling when the server left. "Clearly I'm off my game tonight."

Sherlock took a large drink to avoid replying. This was beyond excruciating. 

Michael tried again. "Let's try something that isn't to do with either of us then. Did you read about that murder-suicide on the South Bank?"

"Double homicide, actually."

"No, the one that happened last week. The banker who killed his wife and then—"

"Yes, I've read the details of the case. The Met have, as usual, got it completely wrong. It was meant to look like a murder-suicide – wife supposedly having an affair, the husband finds her and kills her in outrage, turns the gun on himself. I suspect the DI in charge has read far too many sensational novels to see the facts clearly."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "What, you've got a theory of your own, then?"

Sherlock took another drink. "The banker was Stanley Offram, who'd spent considerable time traveling outside the country in the last few years, particularly to Russia, where I suspect he was involved in some very lucrative and illegal business dealings. He'd accumulated quite a collection of rare and expensive cars, apparently, which is impressive considering how the market has suffered of late."

"How do you know that?"

"There was an article in the Daily Mail about how his surviving siblings are already fighting over his estate. His wife's family is demanding their share, of course, and claim the allegations that she was having an affair are completely false."

"Well, they would say that, wouldn't they?"

"According to an article published a few weeks before the murders, Mrs. Offram's sister has a child who has been very ill for the last few months, and she had spent nearly every afternoon at the children's hospital in support. She became active in fundraising for the hospital, which was the main thrust of the article. That hardly sounds like a woman who has time for a lover, does it?" 

"So what do you think happened?"

"Mr. Offram was murdered as a result of his shady business dealings, while out for an evening on the town with his wife. There was an opening of a new exhibit at the Tate Modern the night of the murders, and they were spotted there by witnesses. The police's theory was that they went for drinks after, got in a row about her supposed lover, perhaps having spotted him at the opening, and as a result he shot and killed her before turning the gun on himself. But none of the other evidence suggests he was a violent person, nor that he had any reason to suspect her of infidelity. And though he did own several registered firearms, they were all rifles of the sort used exclusively for hunting. Both victims were shot with an unregistered illegal handgun."

"Jesus, you really did your research on this one." Michael's forehead furrowed. "So are you going to tell the police?"

Sherlock snorted. "Why? It's not as if they'd catch the real killer anyway."

"They might." He picked up his glass and took another drink. "I'm fucking serious. You should ring them up and tell them this."

"And become the chief suspect on a case they've already closed?"

"You're right, and they're wrong. Isn't that important to you?"

"Nearly every minute of every day, someone is wrong about something. Pointing this out generally proves to be an exercise in futility."

Michael smiled ruefully. "In this case, you might be surprised."

"I remain skeptical."

"As always."

Though the remainder of their dinner conversation was not unpleasant, it lacked the easy enthusiasm of the banter of their pre-sex friendship. Sherlock frowned as he picked at his main course: had the sex ruined the part of their friendship he'd valued most? He'd thought of it as a side benefit of their friendship, but it was clear that something had changed between them after that first sexual encounter. 

"You're finished, aren't you?" He looked up to see Michael staring at him, eyes glazed from the amount of alcohol he'd consumed.

"Yes. I'm not terribly hungry."

Michael's smile turned nearly wicked. "Then why don't we pay the bill and get out of here?"

Sherlock felt a small stab of excitement at the clear desire on Michael's face. Apparently Michael had thought dinner a success, that it had approximated normal enough for his needs. It hadn't been entirely excruciating for Sherlock, either – perhaps it would all be fine after all.

The cab ride seemed extraordinarily long, and Michael pressed against him in the seat in a way that made Sherlock feel claustrophobic. He nearly bolted from the car when they finally arrived, though Michael mistook his apprehension for excitement and followed with great enthusiasm. Sherlock could barely manage to unlock the door for Michael's wandering hands, and by the time they finally made it to the bedroom, his discomfort had nearly derailed him. Michael pulled him down onto the bed and kissed him with a ridiculous amount of tongue before rolling them over and pressing Sherlock into the mattress.

"I'm going to suck your cock until you're on the edge of coming," he whispered, already grinding his erection into Sherlock's thigh, "and then I'm going to fuck you, slowly, until you come all over me."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could do this. If he did, Michael would agree to stay, and then they could have the sort of sex Sherlock wanted next time. Relationships were about compromise, weren't they? He'd read that several times, at least. 

Michael sat back and peeled off his clothes, and Sherlock mirrored him, shucking them as fast as he could manage. He settled back on the bed and waited while Michael tugged off his socks, and forced a smile when Michael looked up at him. 

Michael's gaze was fixed on Sherlock's very un-erect penis. "Too much to drink, then? Here, I'll fix that for you." He settled between Sherlock's thighs and kissed the tip of his penis before wriggling the tip of his tongue into the foreskin.

Michael had sucked him before, but usually while he was tied down and Sherlock had control – never like this. As sexual stimulation went, though, it was pleasant, and his body was responding. Slowly. Michael seemed to think more effort would do the trick, and his gentle licks soon became vigorous sucks. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus, to think erotic thoughts. Michael on his knees at the club, willing to do anything for him – yes, that had been brilliant, perfect. Maybe they could do that again, and maybe this time he would have other men suck Michael off, but just to the point of climax, never letting him come. How many times could he do that without losing control? How many times _would_ he do it if Sherlock would promise to let him do whatever he wanted again? 

Michael sat up and wiped a hand over his mouth. "If you're not into this, you could just say so."

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. "I'm absolutely into it. Please don't stop." 

"You're not even hard."

Sherlock looked down, and flushed. He hadn't even noticed his erection had flagged. "I don't… I thought I was. I was trying to, anyway."

Michael's eyebrows rose. " _Trying_ to? What the fuck does that mean?"

Sherlock sat all the way up. He'd already fucked this up, and he wasn't quite sure how. "I have to concentrate to keep an erection. It doesn't just happen with stimulation alone."

"Yes, it does. I've seen it. Every other time we've had sex, you've…" Michael trailed off.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, and waited for him to work it out.

"You can only get hard when you're dominating me. Is that what you're saying?"

"I believe so. Yes." 

Michael pressed a hand over his eyes and made a strangled sound. "Oh my God."

So that was bad, apparently. Sherlock looked away.

"So this is how it's going to be then, isn't it? We'll only ever have freaky sex, and you'll only get off when you know I'm uncomfortable or doing something I really don't want to do, and it will never be just… sex."

Sherlock felt a strange twisting sensation in his chest. "I thought you liked it as well."

Michael stood and crossed to the window. "Sometimes I did. Most of the time I just wanted to come and go have a fag, have it done with."

"Right." Sherlock turned towards the window. "Well, we could do that. You could tell me what you don't want, and I could… not do those things."

"What I want is to see you come because of me, not because of the twisted fantasies in your head."

"But I do, that's—" Sherlock closed his eyes, tried to straighten out his thoughts so that he could express them in a way Michael would understand. "It's because of you, because of the things you're willing to let me do. Because you trust me enough to let me push you and challenge you. Seeing you like that is the most erotic thing I can imagine. I can nearly climax from the thought of it alone."

Michael turned to look at him, his expression showing a mix of emotions: desire, fear, confusion, and something else Sherlock couldn't identify. "Was that what you were thinking about just then?"

"Yes."

"You were fantasizing about us, while we were actually having sex."

"Yes."

"Do you realize how completely fucked up that is?"

"I do."

Michael shook his head and turned to look out the window again. It was silent for several interminable seconds. Sherlock watched him and ached in a way he couldn't quite understand. It was over, wasn't it? Michael would put on his clothes and leave, and that would be the end of it. Sherlock doubted Michael would want to continue their friendship if they were no longer sexually involved.

"All right," Michael said, so softly Sherlock almost didn't hear it.

"What?"

"All right." Michael crossed back to the bed and stretched out beside Sherlock. He raised his hands above his head, crossed them at the wrists. "But I want your dirtiest fantasy. I want to know what I'm getting myself into."

Sherlock stared at him. "You want…"

"Anything you want. Bring it on."

"Are you…" He had to stop and swallow. "Are you certain about that?"

"Yes." Michael's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. It was ridiculously obvious that he was lying, but Sherlock didn't care. He just wanted Michael so badly that he was happy to pretend it was the truth.

He didn't say another word; he slid to the edge of the bed and opened the drawer of his bedside table. He pulled out two lengths of rope and a scarf, and turned back to Michael.

Michael nodded. "How do you want me?"

"On your hands and knees."

It took a few minutes to get Michael ready, but when he was, it was a sight to behold. His hands were tied together at the wrists and he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against them. The scarf had been tied around his eyes, and his knees were spread apart, feet crossed and tied at the ankles, exposing his arse, testicles, and penis. Just the sight of him like that, waiting and pliant – Sherlock inhaled slowly and exhaled again, and then pressed his erection into the cleft between Michael's spread buttocks. 

"And now you're into it." Michael's voice was rough, whether from arousal or discomfort was unclear.

"No more talking." Sherlock slid the head of his penis downwards, pausing briefly to press it against Michael's bare arsehole, and then kept going until it was pressed up against Michael's balls. He reached under Michael to stroke their cocks together, and Michael moaned in appreciation. 

He sat back again and reached into the open drawer for lube. He didn't bother with a glove this time; he wanted to feel Michael from the inside, wanted to press his fingers against the soft skin of his rectum, wanted to feel the sphincter pushing back, trying to evade intrusion. He squeezed lube onto two fingers and pressed them in with no warning.

Michael tensed beneath him, but he couldn't move away in this position, so he just had to take it. Sherlock could feel the instant his body accommodated the intrusion, could see the muscles in his back relax. Good. He added another finger. Michael made a small sound at that and his hips jerked, and Sherlock slid a soothing hand down his back. 

"Very good, almost there now." He pulled his fingers out again and circled one fingertip around Michael's wet, reddened arsehole. "I would love to see you in the back room of a club like this. I wonder if you could take two cocks at once." He paused to add more lube to his hand, and then pressed four fingers into Michael's arse. It was a tight fit and he could only manage to get his fingers in to the second knuckle, but it was worth it for the response. 

"If you're going to fuck me, get on with it." Michael's voice was muffled against the mattress. 

"I said no talking." He pulled out his fingers and pulled a new toy from the drawer, something Michael had never seen: a thick vibrating anal plug. He slicked lube over the surface and pushed the tip of it against Michael's arsehole. "It's tapered at the end so it feels small now," he said, twisting it slowly as he pressed it the tiniest bit forward, "but when I start to push it into you, you're going to be surprised." 

He took his time inserting the plug, moving slowly, twisting, then pressing in until Michael squirmed, then pulling it back out again. Two centimeters forward, and one back, alternated with the occasional stroke of Michael's cock, which had remained completely hard during the entire process. Michael breathed a sigh of relief when the flanged end of it pressed against his skin, and Sherlock rewarded him with two full minutes of slow strokes of his cock with a lubed hand. 

Michael groaned in frustration when Sherlock's hand disappeared. Sherlock smirked and touched a button on the base of the plug, and Michael's hips bucked up in surprise.

"That will be your reward," Sherlock said as he released it. Michael's shoulders sagged against the bed. "Reward for what, I'm sure you're wondering." He reached into the drawer again and pulled out a soft leather strap.

He slid it through his fingers and took a deep breath. He'd bought it more than a week ago, and wasn't sure when he'd get a chance to use it. He certainly hadn't expected tonight to be the night, but Michael had said _anything_. This wasn't Sherlock's dirtiest fantasy, not by a long shot, but it was one he was at least prepared to try out tonight.

He let the strap slide across Michael's back, gave him a chance to guess what it was. Michael went very still beneath him, and Sherlock did it again, let the leather slide down his shoulders and tickle his sides. He raised it up then and, without warning, slapped it down against Michael's back. The sound of leather against skin was astonishingly satisfying, but even more so was the way Michael whimpered in response. Sherlock did it again, harder this time, and then traced the pink mark the strap left behind with his fingertips.

"Beautiful," he said, and then thumbed on the vibrator. He reached between Michael's legs to stroke his cock back to hardness again, and pulled away when Michael began to rut against his hand. He switched off the vibrator. He picked up the strap again.

He lost track of how many times he striped Michael's skin. He was lost in the imagery of it: the sounds of the leather against bare skin and Michael's whimpers and moans. He eventually left the vibrator on while he struck Michael's arse, raising beautiful red lines on the pale skin there, and his own cock was so hard he thought it might burst. It was incredible, better than he'd expected, and Michael was just taking it, rocking with the movements of the strap, and now calling out Sherlock's name. 

Michael twisted out from beneath him and Sherlock paused, realized he'd missed something. Michael was speaking, and had been for a while, but it hadn't registered. 

"Will you fucking listen to me? Orange! Orange, orange!" 

The safeword. He'd forgotten. And he had no idea when Michael had first said it. Oh, God.

His euphoria evaporated in a cold rush that left him breathless, reeling. Michael – he had to untie him, had to get him out of this, this… He froze, momentarily stunned by the sight before him. Michael's back was striped with welts, some of which were bleeding, and he was still tied hand and foot, and struggling. Sherlock threw the strap aside, switched off the plug and tugged it out, and winced at the sight of Michael's stretched, reddened arsehole. He untied Michael's feet and hands, but before he could get to the blindfold, Michael's fist caught his chin and knocked him backward off the bed.

The pain of it made him dizzy for a moment, enough that his brain was momentarily derailed. Michael stood over him when the world righted itself, screaming words that Sherlock couldn't process. His eyes were reddened and his cheeks were wet, and he was utterly livid.

Time began to return to its normal speed again, and Michael's words began to filter into his brain.

"You are a fucking _freak_ and if you ever lay a finger on me again, I will _kill_ you! You fucking psychopath, this is not normal! This is not what normal people DO!"

He kicked Sherlock hard in the side and Sherlock winced and doubled over. 

Michael's words kept rolling over him, flooding his ears and his skin and his gut, the rage nearly overwhelming in its intensity. Sherlock curled into himself, his eyes clamped shut, his brain reeling. He'd caused that – he'd done that; it was his fault, _oh God_. He wrapped his arms around his own torso and whined, and the sound was shrill and strained even to his own ears. 

"You're a fucking freak!" Michael shouted, and he was right. He was right. 

_Oh, God._

Images flashed across his brain now, so quickly he almost couldn't parse them: Michael's face, his words, the expression of relief he'd had after nearly every sexual encounter, the apprehension in his limbs and his voice when Sherlock tied him up, the occasional anger and frustration and even fear – all of it was so obvious now, so clear. Michael had just been enduring it all along, hadn't enjoyed it as Sherlock had thought he'd done, and now it had been too much. Sherlock had pushed too hard and he could see now Michael had wanted it to stop, but he'd been afraid to say anything – afraid of _Sherlock_. 

He opened his eyes to see Michael fully dressed now, tugging on his shoes. He was leaving, no, _fleeing_ , and that would be it. Something dark and desperate flared in Sherlock's gut. "Michael—"

"No." Michael whirled to glare at him. "I knew this would happen. I knew that one day you'd do something like this, and now look at me! I'm fucking bleeding!"

Michael twisted and looked down at his side, where blood was seeping through his dress shirt. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror: he'd done that. _That_. He pushed to his knees and started forward, but Michael stepped back with a fierce expression on his face.

"You stay right there, I'm warning you."

Sherlock held up his hands, and saw that they were shaking. "No, please, if you'll just let me–"

"All I've done is _let_ you do shit, and this is where it's got me!" 

"I'm sorry, I… I'm so sorry." Sherlock sank back to the floor, nearly frantic now. There must be something he could say or do to fix this situation, but he couldn't focus, couldn't fucking _think_. His brain was failing him.

Michael exhaled a shaky breath and sounded as if he were trying to collect himself. "How the fuck did I get myself into this?" 

Sherlock forced himself to look up at Michael's face. The anger was gone, but something else had taken its place, something like clarity and determination, and any hope that Sherlock had left began to seep away. He swallowed down the cold despair rising in his throat and tried one more time: "Michael, I'm so sorry." 

"Yeah, so am I. Look, I can't do this anymore, all right? I thought I could stick it out because I… I thought I liked you, maybe even loved you, but now I look at you and I just see a person who is so fucking twisted that… You're not capable of doing this, are you? You can't just have a normal relationship; it has to be all about feeling superior in every possible fucking way, always being in control and bending others to your sick vision of the world." He paused and swallowed audibly. "I don't… I can't. Not anymore. Goodbye, Sherlock."

He wiped at his eyes once again and crossed to the door. He moved slowly, gingerly, clearly in pain, and Sherlock closed his eyes against it. It was too much, too much to know what he'd done, to hear the words, and to know, deep down, that they were true. 

How had he missed this, all this time? Michael didn't like it, hadn't liked the sex they'd been having, and Sherlock had _missed_ it. He'd only seen what he wanted to see, and hadn't noticed that his lover didn't like having sex with him, that he was actually disgusted and horrified by him. 

He'd thought he could control it if he approached it logically, as an experiment, like he did everything else, but he couldn't. He _couldn't_. His body had betrayed him and his brain had failed him, but worse, he'd let his emotions rule his head: sentiment and desire and longing and sheer fucking _want_. It was nearly too much to bear, and he pressed his hands against the sides of his head, trying to force his whirling thoughts to slow down.

The door closed, and then he couldn't hear anything, couldn't see, couldn't think. He pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead against them, and felt himself sinking, falling. He crawled to the bedside table and fumbled in the drawer for the case he knew was there under the false bottom. He spread the contents on the floor with shaking hands, his ears filled with the sound of his own rasping breaths. This would clear his mind, would help him sort this all out and think. 

No, that was a lie: it would cloud everything, make him forget, push it all away. It would give him space, stop the avalanche in his mind, and let him breathe. The familiarity of the motions was already calming him, settling him. He just had to steady his hands, had to keep it together long enough to get this sorted, and then it would be fine. He would be fine, and he could think again.

There was a bright light then, and footsteps that rattled the floor, and he didn't look up, couldn't bear it.

"Sherlock." Mycroft crouched beside him and pushed everything out of reach, skittering it across the floor and into the shadows. He threaded a hand into Sherlock's hair and said nothing more. 

Sherlock collapsed to the floor with a cry and curled into himself, his bare skin stinging against the cold wood slats, and let himself be dragged into the abyss. 

*****

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks go to Drinkingcocoa for her endless support and feedback. She saw multiple drafts of this story over nine months and her insight made it far better than it might have been otherwise.


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